


The Long Way Home

by Glasschmetterling



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Boromir Lives, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 91,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glasschmetterling/pseuds/Glasschmetterling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir is near dead as he is floating down the Falls of Rauros, but is found by a Ranger of the North, who, with the aid of Elven remedies, tries to cure him from his near fatal wounds, not knowing the load of guilt and debt he has incurred as he tried to take the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**The Long Way Home – Prologue**

_ January the 18 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

Caras Galadhon glittered in the evening sun as Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain and High Warden of the White Tower, returned from his aimless rambles to the camp their hosts had set up for them on the green lawn, a frown firmly in place on his forehead. He didn't like it... didn't like it one bit – that they were staying here, among those Elves, under the ever watchful eye of Lady Galadriel... that Aragorn was listening to her, seeking her counsel... that he wanted to take the Ring to Mordor instead of using it like he should, betraying his weakness of character and lack of determination... that he should have claims to the throne of Gondor... he shook his head, then froze as upon rounding the last bend in the ambling path leading to their tents, he was greeted by a sight he had not expected.

A little bit away from the other companions, Aragorn sat on a bench, talking quietly to a woman next to him, whom Boromir had never seen or met, but who looked like she belonged to his kinsfolk from the North – dark-haired, tall and proud. Who was she? What was she doing here, in Lórien of all places, among the Elves? Suspicion immediately rose inside him like the morning creeping in from the river, and he took a quiet breath and shoved the objections his honour insisted to make aside, then continued in his path, slower and more careful than before. They had not yet noticed him, and maybe he could catch a few words of their conversation, discover the matter they were so earnestly discussing... after all, he had a right to know where they were going and when, be Aragorn their leader a thousand times!

They noticed him when their voices were no more than a mere murmur in his ear, and both stood as he approached them, openly now, quelling his disappointment. “Aragorn.”

The frown on Aragorn's face came and went so quickly that he was not sure he really had seen it, but the tension lingering in the air between them was only too real, even though this was neither the time nor the place to act upon it.

“Boromir.” 

He was the first to look away, his eyes flitting to the woman next to the Ranger, whose gaze was much too perceptive for his taste, and Aragorn caught it with ease. “May I present, Arnuilas, daughter of Afrelot, from the North. This is Boromir, son of Denethor, of Minas Tirith.”

She curtseyed, without the flourish and elegance of the women at his father's court, and he bowed, but that did not keep him from examining her carefully, nor her from regarding him with equal intensity. She had no claims to Elven beauty, but there was intelligence shining from her eyes, and a knowledge of the world that made him rather uncomfortable only a day after Galadriel's interrogation. Nevertheless, he forced a tight smile to his lips. “Pleased to meet you.”

She returned it, more naturally than he. “And I to meet you. You have come a long way from the South.”

“As have you from the North.” He paused for a moment, considering if he should leave them to their debate, but he was still curious, and sure that Aragorn would not give him the answers that he desired – or at least not ones he could trust. Maybe she would be more forthcoming. “What brings you to Lórien? For you are the first of the race of Men besides my companion whom I have seen here.”

She tilted her head, pondering his question for a moment with a suspicion that made him immediately fear Aragorn had warned her of him, before she answered. “I was sent from Rivendell by the Lord Elrond to scout the Pass of Caradhras for the Fellowship. I was wounded in a skirmish with stray Orcs on our way down from the mountains, and left here to recover, while my companion returned to give news of our discoveries.”

He hid his surprise at her words, deciding to nod instead – he had not taken her for a warrior. “You know of our mission then.”

“She does,” Aragorn answered softly, “even though even here, it is unwise to speak of it without need.”

“As you were doing before I arrived.” It was only a guess, but it made Aragorn frown again, either from the surprising sharpness of his voice or because he was startled that he could draw even the simplest of conclusions. Boromir grit his teeth.

“As we were,” Aragorn agreed, “but not without need. Upon our departure, he likeliest course for us to follow will be down the Great River, either on foot or by boat, and we will need to know how far the enemy has advanced on the eastern shore, or maybe even on the western.”

“And _she_ is to be our scout?” The doubts in his voice darkened Arnuilas' face as she stepped forward, answering with more intensity in her voice than his words really warranted. 

“One of them. The Galadhrim are sending theirs as well, but they will need all of their forces to defend their borders soon, and I am not one to sit idly now that my wounds have healed.” 

He nodded, unwilling to respond to the obvious challenge in her tone, as it would only serve to heighten the tension between him and Aragorn to doubt her abilities now, but part of him still wondered.  _ Are the Rangers of the North so desperate that they have to send out their women now? _

Aragorn stepped forward, and Boromir thought he detected an intent to defuse the rising tension, though on his account or the woman's, he could not say. “I take it that I will hear of you, Arnuilas.”

“With luck, yes.” Boromir could hear that her reply was only half a jest, but her words, spoken in that soft soprano, reminded him too much of the battle-worn soldiers he had commanded in Gondor that he could even smile at them. 

“Stay safe, then.” 

Arnuilas nodded, clasping Aragorn's arm like a man would, and tapping his shoulder briefly, before she pulled back. “And you.”

Aragorn smiled, with a sad tinge that spoke of intimate knowledge of his own mortality, and departed, turning to follow the path that led to their encampment, and Boromir had already started to leave himself when he noticed that she was staring at him intently – maybe waiting for a farewell from him?

“Do you not have to go?” he asked rather harshly, and a deeper shade of hauteur spread over her features as she stepped back from him. Surely he had scared her off – thankfully. But at the moment, he did not think that he was fit for company. There was too much to ponder and brood over, and she would only distract his thoughts. They needed to come to a decision, and soon, and if Aragorn was not the one to make it, then it had to be someone else. Most likely he. He had no faith in the strength of Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits and...

“My Lord?”

The woman had obviously spoken to him and expected a reply, and he forced his attention back on her. “I was... distracted.”

She did not smile, only gazed at him with an expression in his eyes that told him he had given too much of his thoughts away, even though he had not spoken, and he tried to divert her attention. “Farewell, Arnuilas of Arnor.”

“Farewell, My Lord.” She smiled tightly and then turned, striding away determinedly over the short winter grass, Elven dress rustling quietly, a sound that faded in the ever-present voice of the countless golden leaves.


	2. Chapter One: Down The Falls

**The Long Way Home – Chapter One: Down The Falls**

_February the 26_ _th_ _, Year 3019 of the Third Age._

She saw the Orcs, she heard the Horn and the vicious clashing of steel on steel, and yet there was nothing she could do about it. Their foes were everywhere, surrounding her hiding place in the ruins of a forsaken settlement, and she only dared to peek out, seeing them pass her by, reinforcing their allies up the Rauros at Parth Galen. She was of no use dead, she knew that, reminded herself of that fact every half minute as she watched out and listened, but it did nothing to quiet her feelings of guilt and cowardice as she sat in safety while friends died. It had to be friends – everyone attacked by Orcs these days was, or at least very nearly.

And then there was silence, descending upon her like a thick, heavy blanket. The Orcs were gone, had left for the Emyn Muil to the West, the fight had abated, and the Horn had ceased to call out to her with its own, strange magic coming from ancient times. She only heard the deep roar of the Falls upstream, not far from the remnants of Númenorean walls and buildings she had taken cover in, and carefully crept out, looking around, although she still held herself low amidst the crumbling ruins. It was almost as if nothing had happened, and yet... yet she felt that evil had proceeded at Parth Galen, that blood had been shed, and not only that of Orcs. She hoped that it had not been the Fellowship under attack... but hope was not what would tell her. She would have to travel upstream, to climb the steep stairs, and take a look, find out if there were any survivors.

She turned around to survey the small camp that had been her home for the previous weeks, but it was well hidden and even if Orc stragglers would find it, there was nothing hidden in it she could not do without... and hesitation would not bring her the clarity she desired. Only one thing could.

Pulling her travel-worn cloak over her head, she began her way towards the falls, always keeping in the shadows of the ruined settlement, then finally leaving them to hide in the bushes lining the riverside, her fingers locked around the hilt of her dagger. Even the birds had left the shores of the great Anduin as they felt Sauron's evil approach, and besides her quiet footsteps, only the gulping sounds of slowly running water broke through the heavy, menacing silence. She had travelled both Eriador and Rhovannion, but not even the Icebay of Forochel in the depths of winter had seemed so completely and utterly deserted as this bogland, and she suppressed a shiver. Something  _bad_ had happened here, but she quelled the urge to hurry, to break her cover and speed her steps – Orcs could still be near, and an arrow would kill her as surely as any sword. That she saw no trace of them as she observed her surroundings did not mean that they were not there, watching her, and... she froze as her sharp, attentive gaze turned towards the marsh at the feet of the great Falls of Rauros.  A boat floated upon the calm, slow waters, guideless and seemingly empty, but even from her vantage point, she could see that it was of Elven origins, or it would never have passed the Falls unscathed. Aragorn had said that the Fellowship might travel in boats from Lothlórien, and her heart nearly stopped, but then she cursed herself for her foolish sentiment – there was no time for these things. If one of them had tried to flee in it... her decision was made in a heartbeat, and she quickly and quietly broke through the thick bushes she had hidden in and slid down the bank to the narrow, muddy shore of the Anduin. 

She was fortunate that the marshes into which the Great River broadened after falling down from the lake had not much of a current, or otherwise, the boat would have been long gone by the time she reached the water. Despite the time she had lost in her approach, she still had a chance of reaching it, and she took a quick glance at her borrowed elven-made dagger, a loan from the defenders of Lothlórien. Its edges only shone lightly, and she determined she could take the risk – a rash decision fuelled by her own guilt that she had not been there to help during the earlier battle. In one moment, she had divested of most of her weapons and her mail and dived into the water.

It was so cold from the first melting snow from the North that she nearly forgot to swim, but quickly discovered that it kept her muscles from clenching, with every stroke hoping that the forces of the enemy would not spot her in the calm water. She allowed the weak current to help her, let herself be drawn into the middle of the stream so she could reach the boat, but without its help, she would never have made it. It seemed to sense her purpose, because it gently drew nearer until she could reach out with her hand and grab the frame, and did not topple as she pulled herself up, taking a look inside. The effort was nearly too much for her cold, clenched muscles with the additional weight of her heavy, soaked cloathes, and she nearly lost her grip again as she saw who lay inside the boat, put to eternal rest with the broken weapons of his enemies at his feet. She knew this man, had met him in the golden gardens of Lothlórien a month ago, the memory hazy and distant like those of all mortals returning from that land of magic... seeing his noble features now in the harsh, grey light of the approaching evening, blood staining his tunic and death darkening his face... it was a shock.

She barely managed to hold onto the wooden frame, but dipped under water, swallowing some and struggling to return to the surface as the current was picking up, and she had to cling to the boat so she would not be swept away from it. But even as she coughed and spit, her mind was racing. He was dead. He certainly looked very dead, not only because of the dire wounds to his chest, but also because he had been laid to rest in this boat by his companions.

But she had fought in the North and had seen many a man left for dead who then was not, and that knowledge, and a hollow sense of foreboding whispering in her stomach, made her check, even though the exertion made her stomach turn. She pulled herself upwards once more, ignoring how exposed she felt and grateful that the boat did not even tilt, then tried to still her own breathing, her own racing pulse, to feel his on his neck, and thought she detected a faint fluttering behind her fingertips. It was enough to make her pull out her wet dagger, dry it on the grey fabric of his cloak and hold it in front of his mouth and nose.

He was breathing; it was unmistakeable, but as grateful as she was that he was still alive, that his friends had been wrong, on another level, she cursed and struggled with her newfound knowledge, because it posed a whole new set of threats and problems for her. How to get him to the shore? She could not carry him through the water, and she saw no paddles around... so she would have to direct the boat out of the river swimming. It was her only chance.

She slid back into the water, groaning as its clenching cold hit her again, and tried to steer the small ship to the shore. If it had been anything else than Elven, she would never have made it, but the magic in it, or maybe the magic of its builders, made it sense her purpose, and it slid gracefully through the water, nearly without her guiding hand. Even so, it was an arduous task to return to the shore, and by the time she crawled up the muddy bank and pulled the boat's keel up so it would not be swept away, she was thoroughly exhausted. But she had no choice, and she pushed the feeling away, just as she tried to with the thought of the rocky, debris-clustered way up to her hideout, as she regarded the heavy man before her. He was wet, and it was probably a miracle he hadn't drowned during his way down the Rauros, Elven boat or not... she halted her pointlessly racing thoughts, determined to act even though she barely knew what to do, and checked his pulse and breath again. He still was with her, though not a trace of consciousness seemed to remain, and she hoped that he would stay that way – for if he woke up, his screams would surely alert all of Mordor's Orcs of their presence.

Trying not to moan as her arms and back and legs protested, she pulled him onto the bank as carefully as she could and as quickly as she dared. She would run out of time soon – even with him unconscious, this was far too loud and obvious, her small sounds of pain not helping the matter, and she had to decide what to do, and now. His cloak would have to go, just as his chainmail and his doublet... and anything else that was not completely necessary to keep him alive, or she would never be able to drag him up to her camp.

Quickly, she scanned the contents of the boat and cut his clothes open around his wounds with her dagger, then stripped him down to his shirt, his pants and his boots, putting everything that she did not intend to keep into the small ship – his now damaged, useless garments, his gear, the trophies his friends had given to him for his final rest. She was glad that her dagger was Elven, for it cut through the tightly-woven rings of the mail with little effort, allowing her to pull it off without moving him too much... considering what was to come, it seemed a futile effort, but one she was determined to take. Only when she saw the the broken halves of his horn hesitated she, recognizing it from their short meeting in Caras Galadhon when it had hung on his belt, and more, from the way it had called out to her when she had lain in hiding, and decided to take it with her. It seemed to be of worth to him... and it was not heavy enough to hinder her overtly in her endeavour.

She wrapped it into the grey Elven cloak he had been wearing and stuffed it into her belt before she gave the boat a last, hard kick and sent it back into the current, then knelt behind him and pulled him into a half sitting position against her body, threading her arms around his chest. For a moment, she hesitated, nearly overwhelmed by his weight and her pain, but then she grit her teeth and mustered her courage to carry on. She had no choice if her other efforts should not be in vain, and she was very determined that they should not be. Even if he was to die, whether of his wounds or because the Orcs found them, it would not be because of her lack of trying to safe him.

She pulled herself up and backed away, up the hill, staying as much in the shadows of the crumbling Western settlement as she could manage without leaving her course. Her muscles screamed after only a few steps, and then there was the risk of doing further damage to his body by moving him... but it could not be helped. She needed to get him out of the open, to relative safety, before she could tend to his wounds, and there was only one way to do it.

Though she had turned upstream from her hiding spot to head to Parth Galen, the boat had carried her far from the half collapsed cellar her camp was hidden in, making her way not only tedious but also long, but she dared not rest too often. The Orcs were not gone long enough for her to feel safe in plain sight, and even hidden, she would not dare to light a fire for fear of being spotted from the eastern coast. Though she did not give much for Orcs' marksmanship, even they could get lucky, especially in the dark, when they saw better than cats.

What seemed to her like an eternity as she bit her lip and summoned all her strength was possibly not much more than an hour until she had carried Boromir into the cellar, rested him upon her own makeshift bed and cut his shirt off his body without delay. Several arrows had struck him, standing out black and vile from his pale, now reddening flesh, and she was only glad that the damage to his lungs could not be too severe – he was still breathing, after all. But  _how_ he was still alive was a mystery to her, and she was not sure that, even with all her arts and the experience of years of war, he would stay such.

White and cold as he was, she was sure that he had lost too much blood, but for now, it had stopped to flow. At the moment, it was only a matter of keeping his weak, rattling breaths going and his faint heart beating until she could remove the shafts and, hopefully, the tips that had entrenched themselves deep into his right chest and shoulder. She had to get her weapons that she had left on the upper shore, erase every sign of her presence in the area, and then start to treat him.

Carefully, she turned him to lie on his left, uninjured side to prevent him from suffocating in his present, senseless state, and then quickly rummaged through her pack, searching for the Elven draughts she had been handed for cases of emergency, until she found the one she needed. He was unconscious, and making him swallow would be a dangerous thing, so she just had to hope that it would work without it.

With shaking fingers, she pulled his mouth open and dropped some of it inside, and to her unmeasurable relief, he took a deep, rattling breath, and gained a little bit of colour, though she could not very well discern it in the dim light of the cellar. Despite these hopeful signs, she did not feel comfortable leaving him, but she had to – her things lying out there would surely attract attention from any sentient creature passing by, and what was even more important was that without her sword and bow, she was completely unarmed save for the Elven dagger she was carrying more to detect Orcs than to actually fight them with it.

The cloak from Lothlórien she had pulled from her belt caught her attention, and even though it was dripping wet, she picked it up, slung it over her shoulders and streaked the hood over her head, hoping it would render her invisible through its magic, before she slipped outside into the diminishing evening light.

Being able to walk without dragging a tall, heavy man behind her made her feel light and fast despite her trembling, aching muscles, and she quickly reached the shore and gathered her things. Relieved, she noticed that they had not been disturbed, all of them still there, and in the growing darkness and beginning rain, she hastened to return. She had to remove the arrows as long there was at least a little light for her to see her hands and his wounds, and hopefully the downpour would take care of the rather obvious tracks she had left when she had dragged Boromir to her hideout for her.

She only felt her fear that he might have died during her absence when she returned to find him still on his side, Elven draught dripping from his mouth, and breathing, and she swiftly knelt besides him in the dwindling winter evening light, turning him on his back again.

The cuts and wounds the arrows had left were narrow, and they had managed to pierce through the chainmail... with any luck, the heads were small and tapered, and she could pull them back out the way they had come, rather than pushing the arrows through... carefully. Very carefully.

If he was not dead yet, he had not lost too much blood, no major vessels were injured, but with just one wrong movement, she could easily accomplish that.  _Absolutely no pressure_ , she thought with more than a hint of sarcasm that was completely misplaced at the moment, and tried to steady her trembling hands, tried to quiet her aching muscles.  _Slowly... and carefully._

She did not want to listen to the sickening sound wood and steel made as they slid through his flesh, and when the arrow had come out completely, she breathed a sigh of relief as she saw that the head was still attached to it and had not come off during the process.  _One done, three to go._

Her cold hands moved on, ghosting over his torn flesh that already showed signs of inflammation as she pushed memories of others she had cared for aside, others with similar wounds, others who had not lived and bled out under her very fingers despite her best efforts. She had to work with care... but she also had to hurry, for she knew that her already protesting body would soon cease its cooperation entirely, and then, she could abandon any ideas of him living the night. The thought that she had to carry him down to the water to lay him to rest again at the bosom of the river made her concentrate harder, work faster, determined that he would leave this place on his own two feet, and if she had to keep him alive by the sheer force of her will. She had taken the additional burden of carrying his boots with her, so he would do well to use them!

She removed the arrow embedded not an inch away from the first, reluctantly admitting that this bunch of Orcs were better marksmen than their kin in the North, and then moved on to the one stuck in his lower abdomen that came out more reluctantly than its brothers, but nevertheless it did. The last one was on his thigh, just below where the edge of his chainmail had protected him, and she carefully tugged it out of the flesh, for this one had penetrated deeper than the last. She supposed that, even if he were under the care of better healers than herself, he would retain a limp, that was, if he lived.

Blood had flown freely as she removed the arrows, but not so much that she feared he would expire in her arms, and that he was unconscious helped the matter. Though he did occasionally groan, these were weak sounds of pain, and he did not trash or move as she had other patients seen do, making her work easier and limiting the loss of blood.

Her next move was to take some Elven medicine out of her pouch again, some that would clean the wounds, taking care of any poison on the arrows, and burned as fire, as she knew from personal and very painful experience. Only a few droplets made his flesh smoke as they hit his wounds, and she breathed deeply through her mouth to avoid the choking scent, but then it was over, and still... still his chest heaved in the now dark cellar, still she heard his soft, nearly indistinguishable breathing over the sound of the Falls. Still. She felt like weeping.

She did not, but instead stood and cleaned her hands and arms, as well as the cloth she had used, then pulled out a fresh roll of bandages, glad that she had taken enough of them to tend to her own wounds if the need arose. Nearly all of them went into bandaging his wounds, and then she set back, fighting against the exhaustion that threatened to overtake her now. There was nothing left to do for her, if he lived the night or not was up to him and those Elven healers she had met in Lórien, who had made the draughts she had just used, infusing them with their magic in a way she could neither understand nor reproduce.

When the deed was done, when only the stench of blood remained and she could sit back, urging her eyes to stay open, she almost thought that she had preferred it when her craft was needed, when there were things she could do, when her hands were in motion, no matter how disgusting her duties were... now, she was left useless, just as useless as during the battle at Parth Galen, and she keenly felt it while she watched out from the only exit of the cellar, invisible in her Elven cloak safe for the times when she moved to check on him.

She longed to hasten back to the glade at the top of the falls, to carry out her initial plan of looking for survivors, but she did not dare to leave him alone for such a span of time, and knew that in the moonless dark of the night, she would miss the clues to tell of the fate of the Fellowship. All traces were gone now with the rain settling in over the river valley, and there was no use in hastening up the stairs looking for injured friends when that would mean the man she had found might die for her neglect. Some of them... some of them had to be alive and at least reasonably uninjured, as they had been able to lay him to rest – but the thought was a weak consolation, and did little to assuage her fears and her concern as to the state of their cause.

The fever set on a few hours later, and she could not keep her guard in the ruins, but had to return to him, cooling his head and his feet with water from the river, dripping Elven draught into his mouth and trying to give him comfort while he murmured incoherently, fear gripping his unconscious mind. He was frightened... he spoke of failure in the few words she could distinguish, of Minas Tirith... but there was only so much she could do while his body fought against the Orc poisoning raging in his body.


	3. Chapter Two: Out of the Dark

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Two: Out of the Dark**

_February the 30_ _th_ _, Year 3019 of the Third Age._

 

It was two days until he leapt from feverish delirium into actual sleep, and another one and a half until he finally woke up at dawn. She had watched him, with a tired, unseeing gaze, and did not realize what happened as he opened his eyes and instantly closed them again against the dim light. It was only when he tried to raise his arm – his right arm – and instantly groaned as pain cursed through him that she rushed to his side.

“Boromir,” whispered she, and his hurt, tense body relaxed a little bit when he heard that she was no Orc. She could see him take a deep, rattling breath, composing himself, before he slowly blinked, allowing his eyes to accommodate to light again.

“Ar... Arnuilas.” His voice sounded harsh and raspy, but she smiled nevertheless down at him and pressed his fingers carefully, glad that he had recognized her even in his state and after so short a meeting. 

“Yes...” He started to stir, and her fingers flew to his uninjured shoulder and arm, pushing him down. “Do not move. You were wounded severely, and you need to rest.”

He started to talk, but when he did, coughed violently, throwing up blood, but to her relief, it was not fresh and red, but rather of a more brownish tinge. Elven healing could do a lot, but she was no Elf, and if his lung was lacerated again, he would be closer to death than to life without her being able to help.

“Carefully, carefully...” whispered she as she cleaned his mouth and chin with a cloth, and then sat back next to him. “Do you want to drink? I did not dare to give you much water...”

He nodded only slightly, she noted with relief, and pulled her water bag from her bundle. “There. Only small sips, no matter how thirsty you are. You must not move more than is necessary, and I do not want you to cough again.”

It was only a trickle of water she poured into his mouth, and he faithfully swallowed, then another sip and another, until he raised his hand and she stopped, smiling. “There. That did work quite nicely. How do you feel?”

“It hurts.” His voice sounded stronger and more natural now that he had drunk.

“That is to be expected after the arrows you took – and the fever you caught.”

“Fever?” He eyed her with alarm on his taut, tired features. “How long... have I...”

“It is three and a half days since your battle against the Orcs.”

Though she knew that he had to be exhausted, tired and weak after his ordeal, she saw alarm creep onto his features, alarm and fear. “What about...”

“Your companions?”

He nodded.

“I fear that I do not know. I was on my way up the path when I discovered you, and then I could not leave you long enough to search for them or any trails leading to their whereabouts.”

She saw the pain in his eyes, but it was mingled with the far darker knowledge of how dire his situation had been, how close he had come to death, things that she had not planned on revealing so early in his convalescence. But now that he knew... she shrugged nearly motionlessly. “At least some of them must be alive. They put you to rest in a boat and sent you down the Rauros.”

Immediately, his face lost all expression and he stared at her with wide eyes, motioning to sit up. “They... they thought... me dead?”

“Yes.”

After a moment of tension, he sank back on her blankets, and she sighed with relief as he took the strain off his weak body. “Maybe it was for the best,” he murmured, and she pulled his left hand into hers.

“What was for the best?”

He looked up at her not like the man and hero of Gondor that he used to be, but more like one that had lost everything that was dear to him, and now doubted the values and morals he had adhered to before. “That they left me. The Orcs... they took the Hobbits. Aragorn would have been forced to make a gruesome choice, had he known that I was alive.”

She pressed his fingers, trying to infuse him with a confidence she did not feel herself. “Maybe you are right. You were found, the worst of your illness is over, and by now I am sure that you will live.”

When he looked up at her, she found that her words were only a small consolation for him, contrary to what she had expected, and asked herself what had happened to him that at least part of this proud man had obviously preferred to die.  _Was it the battle? No. He is an experienced warrior... but what else? What has happened at Parth Galen?_

The fear and concern she had let go when the fever abated now returned in force as she watched him carefully as he lay on his bed, eyes closed, deep lines of pain etched onto his noble face.  _Does he still prefer to die?_ , she wondered, but she knew she could not ask lest she turn vague considerations into fixed ideas that he might act upon when she lowered her guard.  _Or should I talk to him? I do not know._ Too often had she seen that that which had helped some of her patients, had worsened the condition of others, and she supposed that his might be another such case.

“Sleep, will you?” 

He slowly opened his eyes, and she saw the frown on his face as he wondered at the new softness in her tone. “I guess I will.”

To her surprise, he actually followed her advice, or at least pretended to well enough that she could step back from his sickbed and step outside, cloaked in the Elven garments that hid her from view so well.  _And what should I do now?_ During the long nights while she had watched over him and tried to keep the fever at bay, she had been focused on the present and had pushed away all thought of the next steps; she had not even been sure that he would survive, how could she plan ahead?

Now, things appeared quite differently, and as he was already on his way to mend, she could allow herself to think. The more she did, the clearer it became that they could not stay here in the wilds. She had only taken provisions for one, and as soon as Boromir would start to eat, which, she hoped, would be after he woke up next, they would dwindle faster than she cared for. Yes, she could hunt, but with the shadow creeping in from the East, most wildlife had left the shores of the Great River and travelled westwards, away from the disturbances of Orcs and shadows overhead. Furthermore, she would have to leave him alone to hunt, and she was loath to do that – he was without weapons or armour, and still weak as a child, though she would certainly not tell him so, lest she injure what little pride he hopefully had still left. If Orcs, or only a wild wolf came upon him while he was alone, he was as good as dead.

No, they had to leave as soon as he – or she – could drag him forward, but the question where they would go remained. They could turn west for Rohan, follow the river south to Gondor, or travel upstream to return to Lórien. Without asking him, she knew which of these options he preferred, but using her own boat to turn south was, despite the fact that it would be the easiest route for him, the one she loathed most. The South was at war, and the Anduin was the border between Mordor and Gondor – and both sides would be very likely to shoot first, and ask questions later. No, she did not fancy being killed by one of the brave men of Minas Tirith, and the prospect of tramping through the Mouths of the Entwash with an injured man likely to catch infection from all the dirt was just as appalling. If she had any say in this – and she intended to have a lot to say, as he would in all likelihood not survive without her – they would turn north and retrace their steps to Lórien, travelling part by boat and part on foot, depending on the current of the river and how well she was able to paddle against it. She could then leave him in the care of the Elven healers to complete his recovery, while she headed to the northern border, helping their allies to fight the Orcs pouring out form Moria, and then... she shrugged softly. The war would be over, one way or the other, and depending on the outcome, she would either return north, or die in Lórien's last stand.

It was not the most cheerful prospect she had ever faced, but then again, she had been living and fighting in Eriador for decades now, and death was always a possibility. Too many Ranger camps had been raided by Orcs, too many of her brothers and sisters not returned from their travels, that she could still indulge in the childish belief that she of all the good, honest people of Middle Earth was the one infallible and immortal.

 

She must have dozed off after she returned to his side, despite the dark thoughts disturbing her mind, because when she was startled by a quiet rustling of cloth, her eyes snapped open and she looked around, searching frantically for the intruder. Only when she noticed that she was alone with Boromir, and that his dark grey eyes were trained upon her, she allowed herself to release her instant tension. The few rays of sun peeking in through the remnants of a staircase had not wandered far yet, and nobody had been here. She was safe. He was safe. She allowed her breath to flow out of her lungs and pushed her aching body up to tend to her patient.

“I am sorry, I did not intend to wake you up,” murmured he as soon as she reached him, but she shook her head and smiled. 

“In truth, I should not have slept at all, so do not worry.”

His creased brow and his thoughtful gaze were enough proof that he would not take this advice to heart, but there was nothing she could do about it. Healing his body was a task that most likely was beyond her abilities, and his mind was something he had to take care of himself, but that would not keep her from worrying about him. Too often had she seen strong and brave men and women succumb to the darkness that came with an injury and the accompanying feelings of fear and helplessness, and with him, there seemed to be guilt lingering beneath his composed features as well.  _But over what? What has he done – or thinks he has done?_

She nevertheless smiled, grabbing the water bag and a bundle of  _lembas_ , tightly wrapped in their leaves, when he spoke up again. “I can do this myself, you do not have to help me.”

She shook her head. “With one arm? Hardly. You would choke and cough, and my efforts in dressing your wounds would all be in vain.”

He was neither in a state to argue nor to hinder her, and even he noticed that when he tried to raise his left hand to her forearm and it fell down heavily. His cheeks started to burn, she could see it even in the dim light, but she valiantly tried to ignore it while he swallowed the dripple she poured from her water bag, and then she unwrapped the piece of elven bread and handed it to him, hoping that it would help to preserve his dignity. “Here. Try this.”

“Thank you.” His movements were painfully slow as he drew his hand back from her arm and raised the bread to his mouth, chewing carefully, while she turned around to store the water away, desperately hoping for something else to do that could serve to distract her from his aching motions. But there was no fire to stoke, no food to prepare, no weapons to clean – she had done all of this and much more while he was unconscious, anything to take her mind off the creeping fear that soon, she would be alone in this godforsaken stretch of land just south the Emyn Muil. The fear that still remained because she could not be certain about his state of mind. _Damn it. Damn it all._

He ate as she rummaged mindlessly through her bundle of dwindling supplies, listening while pretending not to notice his small sounds, and when she thought he had finished, she turned and sat next to him on the think blankets. “How is your breathing?”

He inhaled deeply, as if to try his lungs. “It... hurts, but I suppose it is bearable.”

“Good. I imagine you barely feel it with all the other pains you can focus on.”

She saw the crease on his brow deepen until he realized that it had been sarcasm speaking and his lips curled, at least a little bit. “I will last.”

“Yes, you will. I hope you do realize how incredibly lucky you have been.” He nodded under her stern gaze, though what prompted him to do so she knew not. “Do not throw that gift away.”

He listened to the disant sound of the Falls, as did she, hoping that her words of care would be heeded, or, better yet, that they spoke of a useless concern, before his thoughts slowly came to a conclusion and his hand found her arm again. “You... you know of our task.”

What dark path his mind had wandered on, she knew not, but she nodded softly. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Do you think...” He hesitated, summoning all his strength, but not because he was so weak, but because of the nature of what he intended to say. “Do you think that they have already... failed? That... _it_ is already in the hands of the enemy?”

The intense fear in his words clawed at her heart also, but she shook it off as quickly as she could, not only for her benefit, but also for his. He needed her clear and alert like the Ranger she was, not cowing in the shadows like a child might, and she needed to think. But with all that she knew... she drew her lower lip in to chew on it, forcing the intruding dark thoughts away with the feeling of her teeth on her flesh, until she softly shook her head. “I think not. It is now near four days since I found you... if the Orcs had been able to take the Ring during the battle, they would have handed it to the Nazgûl immediately, and with their flying mounts, it would already be on Sauron's hand. This has not happened yet, or we all would have felt it, so there is hope. Do not give it up.” She hesitated for a moment, and let a shadow of her own fear creep into her voice. “Please.”

He nodded at her, though her words could not lift the dark, sombre air around him, whispering despondently of things he had not told her yet, and she doubted that he would. “Where are my things?” asked he, and she sighed, taking the Horn of Gondor from her bundle.

“Your sword is broken, just as your helm, and I left them, with the other things your companions had given to you, on the boat, to send it down the Anduin. I only took this, as I recognized it from your belt in Lórien, and from the day of the battle, when I heard it call out to me.”

She carefully handed him the cut halves, then turned away as she saw the stinging pain in his eyes, the tears preparing to fall, knowing that this was an heirloom of the stewards of Gondor, given from father to eldest son, worth much more than the gold and silver attached to it.

“Thank you.” His voice sounded raspy and not at all if he really meant it, the words more born from obligation than from true feeling, but she nevertheless smiled at him as she faced him again. 

“I am only sorry that I could not take more. I had to carry you up the shore, and I feared that I would not make it.”

He frowned for a moment before the lines on his forehead gave way to a new, albeit grudging respect for her as he realized what she had done, and she nodded softly, surprised at herself. Only when she felt his lingering disdain disappear did she realize how much it hat grated on her, and she resolved to pay this respect back by trusting him – well, at least trying to trust him – where his own abilities were concerned. No matter where she was and what she did, she knew that she was healer as well as warrior, and the temptation to take away her patients' pain and sorrow was always a strong one. But that would not be the right way for this proud man, but rather, the worst of them – he needed to know his own strength, or he would not recover, from either of his wounds.

“It is of no matter,” replied he finally, carefully fingering the metal bands clasping the horn, and she thought she detected sadness in him. “They were lost doing an honourable deed at last.”

“At last?” asked she without thinking, but as he turned away and would not answer, she decided it was best to leave him to what little peace he might find with his injuries.

 

Boromir firmly kept the frown on his face as he regarded his rescuer with tired eyes, while she busied herself with he knew not what in her bundle until she coated herself in the Elven cloak and returned to her lookout post. When he finally thought she had disappeared from earshot at the entrance of the nearly toppled structure she had hidden him in, he sighed deeply. Yes, he was grateful that she had saved his life – at least when he was awake and master of his thoughts. The nightmares that assaulted him every time he drifted to sleep were another matter entirely. Yes, he felt bad for repulsing her so, for driving her away from what seemed to be her own camp, but despite all his regrets and his guilt, he could not bring himself to change his behaviour. Too much had assaulted him in the last few days before he was injured, too much had happened – and he had done too much wrong to easily cast it aside now that his time with the Fellowship lay behind him, probably for the rest of his life.

If they survived, they would hate him for what he had done, especially Frodo, who must be terribly afraid of him by now, and the other Hobbits would follow suit. That... would hurt, as he had come to consider the little men from the Shire his friends. That Aragorn despised him, for he had seen the revulsion in his eyes just before he passed out, he did not care for – he had never thought highly of the Ranger of the North, and probably never would. But the others... he sighed.

His only consolation was that, despite his folly that had broken up the Fellowship, he had not been the cause of Sauron's second and complete victory, at least not yet. That burden, he knew he could not bear. For folly it was – he could see that clearly now, after the heat of the moment had passed. The icy water of the Anduin and the grasp of death had cooled his ardour, for he could not understand himself and his reasoning that led to his trying to take the ring away from Frodo anymore. It was as if a black veil had been lifted and he was master of his thoughts and actions again, leaving the past days when his mind had been darkened behind... only to be engulfed by another kind of darkness entirely.

Yes, he knew he was reputed to be an unsparing and reckless man, but there were limits to what he would do to those he called friends, and assaulting Frodo as he did, that was not like him, no matter what the stakes. The amount of his own treachery still shocked him, and that he, who had boasted of the loyalty and glory of the men of Gondor as they departed Rivendell, and then again in Lórien, had broken up their Fellowship, was a stain on his honour he would never be able to remove.

It seemed that Galadriel, no matter how much he loathed her, had been right in her estimation of him, that she had seen right into his soul and recognized his weakness before even he did, and that he had better listened to her thinly veiled temptations of might and power. Refusing them consciously, after he had seen them, might have prepared him better for the lures of the Ring of Power, lures that he had thought to be his own, good and sound reasoning at that time. He could not rebuff the Ring's offerings as he had done with Galadriel's when he had broken her gaze, as it whispered to him day and night, even in his sleep, reached out for him from the chain on Frodo's neck...

Oh, he had thought himself so exceedingly clever, that he had recognized this great gift fate had bestowed upon them to crush their enemy once and for all, but now he saw that the only thing he had destroyed were his friends and allies, those who trusted him. The Fellowship. He shivered at the thought of relinquishing everything that was dear to him, the morales and principles he had been taught at the knees of his parents, of giving them up to destroy Sauron, only to find out that he had become the greater evil, and closed his eyes as darkness followed. Would Gondor, would the Free Peoples be better of without Boromir, their self-proclaimed champion and paladin?

His rescuer hurried to his side, having obviously noticed his slight motion. “Are you cold?”

He shook his head, wishing to hide the pain and yet wallow in it. “Only my thoughts are.”

“Do you want to talk to me then? It would serve to distract you.”

He really did not feel the need to speak to her, being one of Aragorn's northern folk, but could not very well refuse her offer, that, he hoped, was kindly meant, and without uncovering his folly. As loath as he was to admit it, alienating her would be detrimental to his situation, as he needed her to return to health and safety. And he had already pushed her back enough, with his coldness and the darkness that intruded into his thoughts.

“What would you have us talk of then? The war? Our cause? How best to kill and roast a rabbit?”

She smiled as she noticed that he had picked up on her habit of sarcasm. “None of these. I had hoped that, if you are strong enough, you might tell me of Gondor.”

Her voice sounded near wistful, but his surprise and the bit of resentment he felt must have shown on his face, for she quickly added, “You do not have to, if you do not want it.”

He sighed. Yes, he would love to tell of Gondor, to about anyone – except to those whose loyalty belonged to the man who held a claim to its throne. It felt like treachery, to give them more information on the land he loved, and, he admitted in the secrecy of his heart, wanted to keep for himself. In his eyes, Gondor needed no King, and he would be content to continue the line of the stewards, on to his son and their sons... but the tides were turning, he could see that now, and he feared that his father would be the last of the Reigning Stewards. Then again... maybe that was not such a bad thing, after what he had nearly done not only to Gondor, but the whole of Middle Earth. “I think I want.”

She smiled and sat next to him, facing the door, her sword and dagger next to her, before she eyed him expectantly from the side, making him begin, though he scarcely had a notion of what to say. He strongly suspected that she knew everything that there was to know about the history of Gondor, and so focused on other things, mostly on that what he had seen and experienced in person. The banners on the top of the White Tower, the bells that sounded the hour, how Minas Tirith glittered in the sun when he returned from a long ride or campaign and could see his home again from afar... At least she should feel that not only the Kings, but also the Stewards of Gondor held a love for their country, and perhaps even more so as they had spent the last centuries there, and not gallivanting about the North, while it fought for its survival.

She listened to him attentively, her face hidden in the shadows, though if it was only because she wanted to calm him, or if she was really interested, he did not know, until his voice had turned raspy and his eyelids heavy, and he had arrived at the end of the Battle of Osgiliath, which he and his brother both had barely survived. “Rest now,” she said, and handed him more water, this time allowing him to drink it himself, and not forcing him to be fed like a child, before she helped him to move to his more or less uninjured right side, where only his thigh had taken the arrow. “I will check your bandages when you wake up next, and I have light again.”

“When will you sleep?” asked he with worry that felt surprisingly genuine to his ears, but she shook her head.

“When it is safe again.”

Despite his concerns, despite his fear that they might be attacked unawares because she had dozed off during the night, he quickly fell into a slumber, and though he was plagued by dark, menacing thoughts and dreams, he managed to draw some vigour from his rest.


	4. Chapter Three: Licking his Wounds

** The Long Way Home – Chapter Three: Licking his Wounds  **

_March the 1_ _st_ _, Year 3019 of the Third Age._

 

Boromir, having slept through much of the day and the whole, long late winter night, woke the next morning to the first rays of the sun peeking into their hideout from the East, and Arnuilas carefully approaching his side. Her relief at having lived another night without Orcs or other servants of the enemy attacking them was palpable, even though, as he had recently found out, daylight was by no means a guarantee for safety in these dark times.

“Good morning to you,” said she, and only when she came close to him, he could see through her false cheer and noticed the bone-deep fatigue that had settled into her features during the night, the pale, puffy skin, the dark circles under her eyes... she did not look good, and that she did not look good did not bode well for him either.

“Have you slept at all since you have found me?” he asked brusquely and she looked up from the bundle that she had pulled over to her side. 

“Dozed a few hours during daylight, when you looked less feverish than usual,” she replied, and he just managed not to roll his eyes. Scolding him into not moving a limb, and then taking such risks herself!

“And when do you intend to rectify that?”

“As I said, when it is safe.”

This time, his displeasure must have been visible, because she glared at him, and then huffed. “Let me check your bandages.”

“If you rest afterwards, I will.”

Fierce grey eyes met tired and pale blue ones, and finally, she sighed. “Fine. But you will wake me as soon as you get tired or you hear or see anything strange  _at all_ .”

It was not a request, but an order, and Boromir did not react well to taking orders, not being accustomed to them... but he thought that in this case, he could make an exception, even though she was a woman, and even though he had doubted her abilities before. After all, the fact that he was still alive after taking four arrows that were probably poisoned spoke volumes of her skill and knowledge. “I will.”

Now that she had stipulated her conditions, she even condescended to smile at him again, but, as she pulled out fresh bandages, he knew that might have been only because she was about to inflict new pain on him. After stubbornly trying to move the first, the second and even the third time, he had found out that her order not to stir had been given with good reason, and the thought of shifting now, or rather of being handled, and having cloth torn out of the dried blood of his wounds was not very appealing.

She seemed to notice his hesitation that stemmed chiefly from previous experiences and smiled. “Would you like to sit up?”

“Sit up?” That she would allow him such, considering her overtly protective attitude, surprised him deeply.

“Yes. It would help me tending to your wounds, and you could watch out better, that is, if you still want to keep your vigil afterwards.”

He knew that her last condition had not been given lightly – she would hurt him, and hurt him badly, and that pain would not subside after she had finished, but would grate on and tire him, but nevertheless... she needed the rest more than he did, he had slept long enough in the past days after all. “Then I will.”

She turned around and scratched something big, heavy over the dirty earth of the floor until he could feel it next to his head. Uneasiness drove him to try to turn around to see what it was, an endeavour that he paid for with a sharp stinging pain in his right shoulder. “It is my boat,” explained she, when she noticed that he had tried to twist in nervous curiosity. “You can lean against it instead of the walls. It will be more warm and comfortable, though comfortable is a relative notion in this environment.”

He nodded carefully. The dirty, cold stone did indeed not look very inviting, and he was near painfully aware that his chances of sitting on his own for a longer period of time were... slim, at best. His body simply was not up to it, no matter how much the elven remedies accelerated the healing process.

His own flinch surprised him when she pushed her right hand under his back and placed the other on his left side, as far as away from his injuries as possible. “Are you ready?” asked she quietly and he nodded with false bravado, he felt not ready at all, even when she prepared herself, apparently untouched by their forced closeness. “Help me as much as you can. You will have to sit on your own for a moment, so I can pull the boat close.”

That a warrior of Gondor would think the task of holding his own weight, and only sitting, as a challenge, was a notion Boromir could not easily entertain, though it was undoubtedly true now, and so he just wished to be done with the matter as expediently as possible. “I will.” He idly thought that he was acquiescing to a lot of things lately, when he felt her body tense next to him and she pushed him to sit upright. He tried to help her as he could, but his torn, agonized muscles screamed, and he feared that it was a good thing that so much power was hidden in her slender frame.

Her left hand moved, from his side to his back, next to the other, giving him a moment to steady himself, to get accustomed to his own weight that rested now on his own strength again, then looked at him quickly, searching for a reassurance that he could hold himself upright. Though he was not at all sure that he was capable of it, he nodded faintly and then felt one of her hands leave his back, gathering the blankets where his upper body had lain.

A moment later, the other was gone too and he struggled not to fall down onto the hard earth as if he were boneless, until the scratching sounds of the boat being pulled over behind him ceased and he felt the assistance of her hands on his back again.

“Ready?” she asked, and when he nodded, she lowered him carefully down into a half sitting, half resting position on the cool, grey wood. He was thankful that her arms were there, or he would have slumped down unceremoniously and hit hardly, because the muscles on his waist and abdomen were no more up to the task of lowering his upper body steadily and slowly than of holding it upright. Every time he tried to tense them, the arrow he had taken brought itself forcefully to his attention, and pain screamed in his stomach. A lot of pain.

He tried to slow down his breathing while she watched him with sorrow in her eyes and fussed over him, putting some scrunched article of clothing, one of hers from the smell of it, under his head as a pillow. To her credit, she did not ask if it had hurt, thereby not forcing him to state the blatantly obvious, instead she just pulled back the blankets from his chest to do what had to be done, though he regretted the necessity even now, futile as his reluctance was.

The late winter air was still cold, even though she had kindled a small fire in a hidden corner of the damp cellar, and he tried to keep himself from shivering, to preserve his dignity. But there was nothing to do against his hairs, who seemed to have their own will and straightened themselves, an effect that was only increased by her cold fingers finding the bandage at his shoulder. She pulled out her dagger, and he instinctively shrank back. “I will cut it off. I will not have to move you so much that way.”

He nodded and eyed the blade warily, trying to draw relief from the fact that the edges shimmered only lightly now, indicating that any Orcs in their vicinity were far, far away, probably on the other side of the river. When she touched him, the metal on his skin was not as cold as he had feared as she severed the bandages and raised his body lightly to remove them, but when he tried to twist his head in order to see the wound, her fingers gently found his chin, turning him back to face her for a moment. “Better look at the entry, will you?”

He doubted that she only asked this of him for security purposes, but nevertheless complied, hoping that it would make the pain and the growing feeling of anxiety inside him more bearable this way. As long as he could, he stayed silent while she examined his flesh, prodding and cleaning his wound with some burning concoction that made him very nearly retch, but then, as she reached for the next bundle of bandages wrapped in leather, he could not hold it any longer. “How is it?” forced he out through gritted teeth and she stilled her movements to look him in the eye, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Remarkably well. There is no infection, so any poison from the tips is burnt out, and considering that five days ago, you were on the brink of death, it is healing quite nicely.”

If how he felt now as she raised his shoulder slightly from the boat so she could bandage it was  _quite nicely_ , he really did not want to know what  _really bad_ was in her  kind of world. Definitely not. True, he had experienced his share of injuries during the twenty-five years he had fought in Gondor's army, and bore a number of scars to prove it, but he had never been wounded as badly as this time, not even when, during one of their campaigns in Ithilien, a scimitar had slashed his leg and the wound had become infected. 

She tied the bandages and smiled. “One done, two to go. Would you like me to pause for a moment?”

He waved the notion off immediately, though part of him wanted to stop the pain tearing through his flesh, but his ratio disagreed. “The sooner it is over, the better.”

She did not answer, but instead cut the next bandage off, this one around his torso, where his chest and stomach met, for the arrow had hit his side. He was probably very lucky that it had missed any major organs considering where it had met with his body, or if it had, that it had not struck the most important parts of them. This time, he could have looked at the wound without twisting his head in an awkward direction, but when he saw his own red, torn and blood-crusted flesh, he decided to watch the entry instead as she had told him. It was important to have her back while she tended to his wounds, or at least he could convince himself that it was, to have a reason not to stare at the gashing wound in his side until she had bandaged him up again.

“ Still fine? No Orcs in my back?” asked she when she had finished, and he appreciated the attempt at humour, though he could not join in it, aware as he was that next would be his thigh, the deepest wound he had received in his vain attempt at defending the Hobbits. On every other day, in every other situation, having a tolerably pretty – and she was not only tolerable, but rather handsome – woman touch him around the middle of his thigh would have elicited very different responses. Now, he only clenched his teeth to refrain from crying out loud and therefore render all their efforts of not attracting enemies in vain, and tried to think of anything else. The dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder proved quite effective, and he concentrated on it, feeling every heavy thud of his heart in it, until he felt her pull the blankets up again cautiously.

“ And?”

“ You will be fine. At the moment, it is an ugly mess, but I am confident that it will not infect again, thanks to all the draughts I am administering.” She hesitated for a moment, and he growled.

“ Out with it, woman.”

She shot him an admonishing glare, but answered nevertheless. “I do not know if you will ever retain full use of your leg or your right arm.”

He had to admit that this was a blow, but knowing it now, being aware of what could happen, was better than finding out the hard way, when he had need of his limbs and could not command them.

She continued, obviously unsure of his reaction, but he barely noticed what she said, while he dealt with the shock. “Conditions here are not ideal for you to mend, as is quite obvious, and I fear that I will have to drag you up and about way before you are ready to walk again. But I dare not stay here longer than necessary.”

She did not have to elaborate her reasoning, but he noticed that she carefully omitted where she wanted to go with him.  _ Lórien then. She must be aware that I do not like that Elven witch and her cursed land. _

His heart drew him south, but the knowledge of his failure, of his treachery, kept his longing to defend the country he loved at bay. Could he really return to his father and brother, knowing what he had done? Could he meet Aragorn again, who would be his king, and look him in the eye, if both of them survived this war? He did not know, and part of him was glad for the respite his injuries gave him. They were a reason, an excuse, to fail to appear in the heat of the battle, to collect his thoughts and find out his next course of action. “When do you want to travel north?”

She eyed him with no little amount of surprise. “As soon as you are able. I hope that the Elves will be able to mend your injuries better than my limited skills can accomplish.”

The thought of owing not only her his life, but also the Elves, and maybe even Galadriel herself, his health, was not one he liked to entertain. “Maybe it is of no matter in which state of health I die as soon as we reach Lórien.”

She smiled sadly at him, though he thought that he could detect a deeper concern lingering in her pale and tired eyes. “That may be. But as long as our treasure is not on the enemy's hand, there is still hope, and I do not intend to give it up.”

“ I fear that I already have.”

She reached out and pressed his uninjured hand. “I know, Boromir... I know. I have lived under the shadow in the North for so long, fought it with all I had, sacrificed those I loved... maybe it is not hope that I kindle to my heart, but sheer defiance and the desperate wish that all I have done and suffered has not been in vain. Then again, what is the difference? It keeps me on my feet, it keeps me fighting, and sometimes, hopelessness does as much for your fervour in battle as the promise of a better future.”

Her words rang a quiet bell in his heart, and he smiled back at her, a small, sad smile that felt genuine despite all the things he had done lately that he had to be ashamed of. “Sleep, will you?” he asked quietly, hoping that he could give back some of the care she had exercised onto him, and relieved when she nodded after a moment of consideration.

“ If you feel up to guarding us, then yes.” She carefully handed him the elven dagger to keep near, to watch out for signs of danger, and placed sword and bow in her reach before she curled into a ball next to him, wrapping herself into the only blanket that was still left. “And maybe I will wake up to a day that is not as dark as the one before.”

 

True to his word, he let her sleep as long as he dared and could keep his vigil, but as the early dusk of late winter set in, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, and, as her sleep had become more restless in the last few hours, he felt little remorse in waking her. His hand on her shoulder obviously startled her, and he saw her reach for her sword until she obviously remembered were she was and the tension left her body. “How long have I slept?” she murmured as she sat up again, pushed a few strands of dark hair out of her eyes and judged the remaining light.

“ Long,” replied he, and she eyed him curiously. 

“ Has anything happened?”

“ Nothing, fortunately, or you would have known.”

He still saw the sleep in her eyes as she frowned at him, judging his words, looking for hidden meanings, and suspicion rose inside him. What did she knew? What had she found out? Had he talked in his sleep, about his failures, about the Ring...? But the moment passed as soon as it had come, the panic lessened and left behind only a nagging fear in his heart as she grabbed her dagger and stood, stretching her muscles, clenched from sleeping on the hard floor.

“ Thank you,” she simply said as she turned towards him again, and her words immediately brought to his attention that he had not expressed his gratitude for saving his life yet. Another of his failures, more to add to his guilt, and he clenched his teeth. “It is nothing compared to the service you have done for me.”

It was not a proper thanks, but all that he could manage to say with his heart behind it at the moment, still not sure if surviving was a good thing after all... but maybe they would have time for that later. If there was a later, and if he managed to make up his mind in the time that was still left for them, not only with the constant threat of an attack on their little hideout, but also with the greater fear of losing this cursed war.

She did not seem to mind his lukewarm gratitude, though. “How do you feel? Has anything changed for the worse?”

“ No, nothing.”

“ Good.”

He had eaten and drank some while she had been asleep, and now felt that with the growing darkness outside, he struggled to stay awake – testament to his own weakness, weakness he could not accept, injury or not. But there was no judgement in her eyes as she helped herself to some of the water and sat besides him, also leaning back onto the boat. No judgement... and no damnation. It rather seemed as if he were not on her mind at all, as she stared off into the darkness, humming to herself quietly and off-tune. It was the last sound that he heard this day, and oddly, he found the thought that even the Rangers of the North were not perfect quite comforting as he drifted off.


	5. Chapter Four: To the Hill

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Four: To the Hill**

_ March the 2 _ _ nd _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

The next morning, a hand on his shoulder woke him just as the sky began to grey, and he started, reaching for the sword that was not there as the instincts of decades of sleeping lightly in a tent next to his troops kicked in again, a definite sign that he felt better.

“ What is it?” asked he, shaking off his natural propensity for deep slumber and waking slowly, aided by the alarm he felt at this unexpected touch. She had always let him rest as long as he could, and he feared that something had happened.

“ Calm.” She had detected his unease and pressed his shoulder, even though she looked concerned herself. “We are safe. I am only going for water, and to look for hints of where your companions have gone.” In his tired, sleep-befuddled state, he could not stem the tide of relief that washed over him, visible even in the dim light of the cellar. He would find out... finally, or at least he hoped so. He would get the closure he needed, hear of the fate of his companions, even though he doubted that he would see them again – either because the tides of war separated them, or because their hatred for him kept them away. 

Arnuilas smiled feebly. “Keep the sword at your side, in any case. I will conceal the entry with the cloak, and hope the best.”

She had already picked up her bow and arrows, and now hung the water bag and the elven dagger at her belt, then slid out through the entry to spare both of them further embarrassing displays. He was awake, he had understood what she had said, it was enough. Or was it?

“ Take care, then.”

The words reached her as she took the last steps towards the exit, and she turned one last time, hand braced on the crumbling walls, and nodded to him, smiling, before she slipped outside into the receding darkness of the night, and there was nothing he could do but sit and wait for her return. How ironic, that she had taken such measures to ensure his safety, when the chances of his survival without her help were so slim... but maybe that was only his feeling of helplessness as he sat in his nest like a freshly hatched bird, entirely dependent upon another.

He hated it. He had been so used to being the one in control and charge, to deciding the course of his future himself, be it at home in the White Tower or on the battlefield, despite his father's constant attempts at influencing him, that he despised that uselessness that he felt now. With his weakness constantly at the back of his mind, Arnuilas' absence was the catalyst that brought it forcefully back to his attention, and he fought against resenting her for it. After all she had done for him, after all she had risked, it was deeply unfair of him to despise her for things she could not help... especially as she was doing him a favour by searching for his companions.

His guilt and helplessness were only made stronger by the fact that, even in a situation where he  _ could _ have chosen the right thing, his mind had been weak enough to succumb to the quiet, seductive whispering of the Ring, while others, especially Aragorn, had not. Especially he... he whom Boromir had despised so much, whom he had ridiculed and belittled for hiding in the North when the South needed him. He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair – maybe she was right in deciding herself, in not seeking his council, in putting her trust in Aragorn, her leader, her king, instead of him, even though his pride protested the thought. He had proven at Parth Galen that he could not be relied on, and she had been very capable of taking care of him while he was unconscious. What a pitiful creature he was now! 

Even though the thought lowered his self-esteem even further, placed him even more in her debt, he hoped that she would return, would coax him out of his darkening mood, maybe listen to him as he told her of Gondor, so he could forget his terrible guilt for a time... Part of him thought that he did not deserve even that little relief, that he should have died at the Falls of Rauros defending the Hobbits, clearing his legacy by dying for a worthy cause at last... but after all was said and done, he was a selfish man. A proud man. A man too weak to follow his own thoughts to their inevitable conclusion – for he could not even  _ fully _ regret that he was still alive, much less do what he ought and end that miserable existence of his. No, he wanted to live, wanted her to return so he could, even though he did not deserve it and there was nothing he could do but trust her instinct and skill, and so he settled back onto the boat, hoping that his vigil would not be in vain, as he knew it very well could be. A Ranger she may be, but even she was not infallible. 

 

She slid through the ruins of the old settlement of the Men of Gondor, quietly making her way upstream as she had a few days before, hoping that she would not find another boat with another near dead man on her way up – one was really as much as both she and her dwindling supplies could take. This time, much to her relief, she reached the stairs that were carved into the stone near Rauros without incident, and, hidden in the mist and spray of the great falls, slid upwards while the sky began to lighten.

Her first goal was the camp side near the river, where the Fellowship had rested the final time, and where she found the last of their boats turned over, carelessly hidden under some bushes. Whoever had done this had obviously not intended to return, and she felt no qualms in helping herself to the provisions they had abandoned here. The preserved bread, meat, fruit and nuts would help her stretch her stock, making their departure from their camp a less urgent affair, and therefore giving Boromir more time to recover before they left. Even in a few days, he would still be too weak to walk, and she could not drag him, the boat and all they wanted to take with them up the stairs, the first obstacle they had to overcome on their way north.

That he had not protested more as she had decreed that they would go to Lórien worried her; she had expected him to, just as she had anticipated his exhausting what little strength he had in useless attempts at moving, but so far, he was a remarkably compliant charge, and that distressed her. Something must have happened to him to change him so much, to make the stubborn, headstrong man she had thought him to be in Lórien disappear, something more than the wounds that had been inflicted on him, but she knew not what. In Caras Galadhon, even in the few minutes they had met, she had found him distracted and brooding... now, he seemed merely deeply and quietly in thought, but there was deep pain hidden inside him, pain that frightened her more than the near palpable darkness she had felt back in Lórien. Could he act on it, do something truly and thoroughly stupid? She hoped not, considering the pains she had gone through to keep him alive, but she could not be sure, and part of her reluctance to leave him alone stemmed not from his weakness of body, but that of the mind.

She shook her head softly to herself, knowing that it was not wise to dwell on such things out in the open while she tried to gather useful information, but not having the strength to rein in her errant thoughts after the many sleepless nights behind her.

Considering that he obviously did not care for Aragorn much, and with her being one of his kinsfolk, he tolerated her presence remarkably well, better so than during their brief introduction now near a month and a half back. But that did not mean that he confided in her, or ever intended to tell her what ailed him. She was quite sure that it pertained to the Fellowship, even the Ring, considering the particular way he had asked about the possibility of the enemy having it... but besides that, she could not ascertain what it was. It was only clear that it had seriously hurt his poise and confidence, and made him quite a different man compared to who he used to be, even considering that she had only known him for a few moments before he had been injured, and not given much thought to the grave man from the South in the weeks she had spent in the wilds.

She softly shook her head as she followed the old, nearly ruined trail up the hillside of Amon Hen. Brooding about him would not help her in her endeavour, she needed a clear, sharp mind and all of her concentration if she wanted to find out anything useful at all from her quick detour to the Hill of the Eye. There were reasons she had not told Boromir about it, especially that she did not want him to hope too much, for chances were good that she found out nothing at all, or that she would alert  _ something _ to their presence here; yet, now that he was considered dead, and with her not playing a key part in this war in the first place, she hoped that Sauron thought both of them of little or no importance to his plans.

She reached the old stand on the summit and quickly ascended, being instantly pulled into its magic, its wish to show her faraway things, and it took all of her strength to direct its course. She looked north first, searched for threats on their way back to Lórien, and found hordes of Orcs that had poured out from the eastern Gates of Moria and crossed the Nimrodel west of the Golden Forest, now roaming between the Misty Mountains and the Great River. She saw the Wold of Rohan, empty and deserted by its people, and the Orcs that invaded Fangorn from Isengard.

_ So Saruman truly has fallen _ , she thought despondently, then steered her gaze to the West, to Rohan, but only quickly; she shuddered as she saw the army readied to destroy it, and a weak king Théoden, not fit to rally the men of his country. 

South was no better. A man, so like Boromir in looks and countenance that he had to be the brother he had told her of, was leading the rangers of Ithilien into war against Mordor, but he was outnumbered by the forces still behind the Gates of Mordor and the Southlings marching north to attack their arch enemy. Though she felt the temptation to also cast her glance to the East, searching for Frodo and the Ring, she quickly resisted it and stood, breaking the spell of the place. There was hope still, as she had said – but drawing attention to what was now their  _ only _ hope was a sure way to destroy it.

Sun had risen fully while she had idled on the summit, and she hastened to return to her camp, filling their water bag on her way, and hoping against better judgement to pick up a trail or two, or any hint who had gone where. It was pointless. Rain had washed away all footprints, and her best sign was the fact that one boat had been left on the shore. At least some of the Fellowship must have continued their travels on foot, and on the Western side of the river, while others seemed to have crossed it; she hoped that the Ring-Bearer belong to the latter group, but could not be sure.

The lack of knowledge grated on her as she sneaked back to their camp, but at least her detour had not been in vain, for the provisions she had found would come handy, allowing her to keep more of the  _ lembas _ for Boromir. He was healing remarkably well, as she had told him, and she reckoned that was an effect of the Elven nourishment he got, as well as the time he had spent in Lóthlorien with the others. The place was so soaked with magic, maybe he had carried some of it with him to the South.

As she slid inside the cellar through the cloak of Lórien, only able to find the entry because she had known where it was, Boromir was sitting upright, sword in his left hand, holding it a bit awkwardly. When he recognized her, he relaxed and sank back against the boat, putting the blade down with caution. “You have been long.”

“ I was at the summit, Looking.”

The fire her words had kindled in his eyes made her doubt the wisdom of her telling him, as the news she bore were chiefly dire. “What did you see?”

She sank down next to him, putting the bundle and the water sack on the floor and helping herself to some of the meat; she was hungry, and she needed a moment of stalling to consider what to tell him, and what not.

“ Your brother,” she answered eventually, and was rewarded with a smile that spoke of great affection.

“ He is alive?”

“ Yes. He is in Ithilien, fighting Mordor.”

“ And what of Gondor? And Minas Tirith? Have you seen my father?” The eagerness that had returned to him was more comfortable for her than the desperation she had witnessed earlier, and she began to hope that her concerned musings had been in vain.

“ I have seen neither of them, but as there are still troops deployed in Ithilien, I think that, at least now, there is no immediate concern for their safety.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “What about... my friends? Have you seen Frodo?”

She eyed him carefully, because asking for Frodo also meant asking for the Ring, but then decided to answer. “I have not dared to search for him, fearing the Eye.”

“ Yes, yes... that does make sense.”

“ You were travelling in three boats, were you not?”

The sudden question shook him from his thoughts, but after a moment of surprise, he answered quickly. “Yes.”

“ I have accounted for two of them now; one was with you, the other I found at your last camp site at Parth Galen. That means at least some of the Fellowship have turned west.”

He frowned deeply as his face darkened. “I hope that they are pursuing the Orcs then; you know that they have captured Merry and Pippin, and I do not want to think of them in the hands of Mordor.”

She nodded softly and with an affection for Hobbits that stemmed from long years of guarding their homeland. “I hope that, too, though I cannot be sure. All footprints were washed away by the rain. But, whoever continued west, has left a lot of their provisions and equipment with the boat, so I think that they desired speed more than anything else. That is where I found the food.”

He smiled as he caught her meaning, reassured by her words. “And what about the third boat?”

“ I do not know, however, I do hope that the Ring-Bearer has turned east, to Mordor.”

His countenance darkened, and she frowned as suspicion dawned upon her as to the cause of his black mood.

“ So you think it is out of our reach.”

“ Yes. Frodo, and whoever has gone with him, is now several days into the Emyn Muil, or even beyond them, and there is no chance of finding them there, or in the Dead Marshes.”

He nodded thoughtfully, staring at the blankets drawn over his lap so intently that she doubted he would answer her, before he finally spoke. “Thank you.”

Her eyebrows rose of their own volition. “For what?”

“ For telling me.”

She was not entirely sure to what he was referring, as a matter more grave than just her report seemed to linger under his words, but, seeing that the matter made him uncomfortable, she decided to leave it, at least for the moment, and instead settled herself next to him, hoping to pass some time while he was awake. “How do you feel? I hope yesterday and today were not to much of an exhaustion?”

He shook his head. “If you call sitting and doing nothing an exhaustion, what is a fast march in full gear over several days to you?”

She grinned, determined to lighten their mood. “Too much?”

He looked at her with surprise. “True. But speaking of this, why are you even here?”

“ What do you mean? I set out from Lórien to scout for you, as you well know.”

“ Any man could have done that; why you? Are the Rangers of Eriador so desperate that they need to send their women to battle?”

There was mockery in his question, but despite the fact that he seemed to take his suggestions not very seriously, he had squarely hit the truth, and she told him so, though it pained her to admit their sad state of affairs. “Indeed. Our greatest weakness has always been that we are few, Boromir, and that our numbers dwindle. Life in the North is hard, do not forget that. If you return from war, you can rest in Minas Tirith. You have a bed and a warm meal waiting for you, a city full of people to tend to your concerns willingly, for you are their hero. We... are despised by all safe our own kin and the Elves, as they do not know the services we have rendered them over the millennia. We can take refuge in Rivendell, or, if we go west to the sea, at the Grey Havens, but between that, our friends are few and far between. There are some settlements and camps of our own, and many of our children grow up with the Elves, but there are mostly women and our old staying in one place. Our men are at war, though they do fight their battles alone, and if it were not for us women, who would forge their swords? Who would hunt their game? Who would cultivate the soil? We cannot simply turn down a pair of hands, even if it belongs to a woman.”

She sighed heavily. “I saw my own father maybe twice or thrice when I was a child, and only when I myself was approaching adulthood, he returned from his travels to stay with his family, too injured to ride out again into the wilds. I was trained both as a hunter and scout and as a healer from childhood, as you might have noticed.”

“ It seems that I have to be grateful that there are so few of the Dúnedain.”

She snorted. “If you are looking at it from that point of view, yes. If I had only learned to mend your clothes and kiss my children's scraps, you would probably be dead now.”

“ Have you?” He looked at her with surprise.

“ Mended your clothes?” Though she had a fairly good suggestion of what he meant, deflecting his questions by sarcasm was easier than face the ghosts of her past.

“ Children,” he explained, and she shook her head.

“ No. As I said, there are few of us, and our numbers are dwindling.” Though he looked at her questioningly, she did not elaborate, did not want to, for explaining the reasons would have opened up scars she did not want to touch now; not when they needed her awake and alert, and ready to fight. She forced a smile upon her lips. “Have you thought me so old?”

“ No, surely not.” The way he raised his hands in defence made her grin.

“ Not the smoothest way out of this predicament, I dare say.”

“ Would you want me to flatter you?” asked he, and she smiled. 

“ Surely not, if there is no reason for it.”

He grabbed the bundle of  _ lembas _ next to him to avoid that particular line of questioning, and she chuckled.

 

Boromir let her sleep again, and, despite her initial reluctance and pride that made him realize how very much alike they were in some aspects, when she had dealt with the resistance she deemed necessary to preserve her pride, she jumped at the opportunity, and made up for the many nights she had waked at his side. With Arnuilas curled up next to him, her head resting on the blankets he half sat, half lay on, he took the opportunity to look at her. Truth to be told, there wasn't much else that could hold his attention in the cellar, for he did not exactly want to ponder the old wooden supports of the ceiling that looked ready to crumble every moment, or the cold, wet and mossy walls. Yes, she must have checked the space they camped in for stability, but that did not mean he had to like it, or feel comfortable in it, and he was ready to take up every train of thought that would keep him from pondering the possibility of suffocating under the dark, wet soil and stones above them.

He turned back to a more pleasant sight, for, he had to admit, she was pretty. Nothing to the countless Elven beauties he had met while he visited Rivendell and Lothlórien, but nevertheless pleasant to look at, with dark hair, light blue eyes, and the noble features of one descended from those of Númenor. The impression was marred by the first shadows around her mouth and eyes, announcing that she was closer to him in age than she could possibly like and that soon, lines and wrinkles would appear, but she looked appealing despite them.

She sighed softly and turned around, murmuring quiet words in her sleep that he could not make out, and he pulled the sword she had handed him closer with his left hand. It was two-handed for her, but more like a bastard sword for him, for though he wasn't that much taller than she, his hands definitely were bigger. Then again, a small sword was better than nothing, especially as his dominant hand was now pretty useless, and, though he was used to fighting with his left, he was not nearly as apt with it. Having failed at protecting the Hobbits, he was determined at least to stand his man to defend her, should the occasion arose, even though he was painfully aware that the sword would be of more use in her hands than in his. And yet... yet his pride refused to let this woman, this seemingly fragile creature next to him, fight for his life, where he should keep her safe – he would take care of her to pay back the debt he had incurred with her when she saved his life, come what may. At least in this small matter, he wanted to quiet the guilt and shame he felt when he thought back to his last actions at Parth Galen, even should his companions never find out what he had done because they died in the wilds.


	6. Chapter Five: Finding Strength

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Five: Finding Strength**

_ March the 3 _ _ rd _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

The next morning, she was so impressed by his recovery that she allowed him to stand, pulling him up from the blankets in his blatant state of undress, and, though he had to lean onto her shoulder heavily at first, he then managed to stand on his own, carefully balancing his weight between his fit and his injured leg. It hurt, but that was to be expected, and pain was something he was familiar with, something he could deal with... not like the magic that had snatched his mind and driven him to do unspeakable things.

He banished that thought as fast as he could, for it was too close to denying his own share of guilt in driving Frodo away to be comfortable with. Aragorn must have felt the pressure as well, must have been drawn to it as well, and yet, he had resisted, had not been taken in by its lures.  _ So the fault lies with me, and with none else. It was the Ring who has drawn me in, yes, but it has only uncovered a weakness in my character that has been there from the beginning. _

“ What is it?” asked she with concern, and he focused his attention back on her face, on her fingers on the bare skin of his arm to anchor himself to reality. 

“ My apologies, my thoughts were elsewhere.”

A shadow of apprehension flashed over her face, but it was gone as soon as she noticed it and could pull herself together, and he sighed inwardly. She did not know what he had done – she might suspect something had happened, but she did not know, and that was entirely his fault. It was selfish of him not to confide in her, to tell her what his treachery was, but the fear in him was still strong. When before, he had feared for Minas Tirith, he now feared for himself and his security should he dare to speak of his despicable deed. It was her fate at stake just as that of every living soul in Middle Earth, and he had nearly condemned her to live under the shadow of Mordor with his thoughtless, unguarded actions. If she found out, she could very well leave him here in the wilds for death, alone and helpless, and no one would be the wiser. All who knew him thought him dead. For all intents and purposes, he  _ was  _ dead to everybody but her, and maybe word of his demise had already spread to Gondor and his family and his people mourned him. Her abandoning him would not even hurt them, for the pain was already there – and there was nothing he feared more than a lonely death in the wilds, even though he knew that he should have died at Parth Galen for his deeds in a last, glorious battled that had been in vain in the end. 

“ You can stand. That is a reason for joy.” Her voice was determinedly cheerful, though very quiet, just as every word they had spoken since he had woken up was hushed. “Would you like to try to walk a few steps?”

He was sure that she would not have proposed such had she not seen his gloom, but was nevertheless happy for the opportunity. Maybe more pain, for he was sure it would hurt, could distract him from his guilt; could even be his atonement for his sins.

She carefully positioned herself in front of him, grabbing both of his arms now, and smiled – a soft, genuine smile that made him almost think she cared about him. A smile that would certainly vanish as soon as she found out what he had done. “Try.”

He first put forward his intact leg, wincing at the pain that shot through his thigh, and leaning heavily on her arms, bare feet clenching the fabric of the blankets he stood on, but he did not stop there. He braced himself and pulled his injured limb to stand next to the other, now softly groaning, but nevertheless ready to make another step.

She did not allow it. She had not moved back as he had expected her, but held her position, and was now looking up at him as he could feel the warmth of her body through her clothing. “I think that is quite enough. I do not know why you are so determined to torture yourself further, but I will not have it. You now know that you can walk again, and that has to be enough for now. Sit down again and rest.”

Her stern, piercing gaze met his, but he held it only for a moment, until his courage and determination faltered and he allowed her to help him settle onto his bed again. Just another sign of his weak will, he guessed... he wanted to suffer for what he had done, and yet, when met with her determination, he did not even struggle to find the pain he thought he deserved.

“ It will hurt enough on our trip back north.”

He looked at her near frightened. “When do you plan to depart?”

“ As soon as I do not have to drag or carry you, because for all the determination in the world I cannot do that. I think that we will be able to travel the lake by boat, as there is not much of a current, but then we have to leave it and walk. Twenty days, I'd reckon, maybe a few more if we are slowed down much by your injury, until Lórien.”

“ A lot of things can happen in three weeks.”

She sighed and raked her hands through her hair. “I know. But there is nothing to be done about it now, and we will just have to go, and hope that Lothlórien is still there when we reach it, and not overrun by the enemy.”

“ You think that it could... fall?” Though he did not like Galadriel, and had never felt at ease during his month at Caras Galadhon, always under the threatening powers of the witch that, in the end, were nothing compared to the Ring's seduction, he did think her a force of good, not evil, and, more importantly, able to withstand the vigour of the Dark Lord. That, and Lórien was a beautiful place... a pure place. He did not prefer it to the forests of Ithilien, where he had spent so many months in camp, hunting for the Orcs and Eastlings of the Dark Lord, but he would nevertheless regret seeing it destroyed. 

“ Dol Guldur is not far, and even Galadriel's powers are limited. Though the Elves will never again be deceived by Sauron, he can defeat them, as he has proven as he slew Gil-galad.”

He nodded, not wanting to admit that he knew not much about the lore that she seemed to remember as her own history. He had heard, countless times and again, the accounts of the great battle at the end of the Second Age, when Isildur had cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, and the glorious Last Alliance of Elves and Men, but other then that, and what had been told at the council in Rivendell, he knew nothing.

“ If her sorcery cannot withstand him, who then can?”

She sighed heavily and he felt his own fear rise to meet her desperation as her shoulders slumped. “Yes... who can?”

 

Arnuilas sighed quietly as she stepped away from her charge, trying to push away the intruding thoughts, but she could not. Their talk about their future travels to the North, about the time they would lose, had only awakened her own feelings of guilt and regret. She had, after the Fellowship had passed her vantage point, planned to return to Lórien, to join the battles of the Galadhrim at their northern border, or, if the forces of Sauron really crossed the Anduin, help them to protect the Naith of Lórien, their homeland. Now, she was stuck in a cold, damp cellar of a centuries old Númenorian settlement, protecting an injured man who, with bad luck, would never be able to fight again, or be killed on their long and arduous trek to the North. But as much as she did not like it, as much as she wanted to contribute to the defence of Middle Earth, as much as she wanted to kill Orcs for what they had done, time and again, he was her duty. A duty she could not shirk, for he would not survive alone, that, she knew clearly.

And, as she looked at him staring blankly at the wall, deep in his thoughts now, he was a man that might have a chance to heal when they returned to Lórien. That his wounds were not only those of the body, but also of the soul, became clearer and clearer to her the more she talked to him, and she was surprised that, despite being mortally injured, he had found the spirit to fight. He wanted to live, or rather, he needed to live, or he would never have woken up from his fever, but now that he had, he seemed not very keen on regaining what he had lost when he had travelled north to join the Fellowship. He had asked about Gondor, but not pressed her to take him thither. He cared about his home, but obviously did not want to help it in what would possibly be its greatest hour of need, an alarming sign in a man as proud in his home, his ancestry and, more importantly, his feats in the countless battles he had fought.

She sighed softly. In the North, when she had treated the wounds of Rangers returning from their duty, she had seen men succumb to injuries far less severe than his, only because they would not fight for their lives, because they had seen such terrible things that they had lost all of their spirit, or because they had fallen under the shadow of Angmar, and she shuddered to think of them. They had been friends, all of them, with some, she had played as a child, and yet, she could not help them, because it was not in her power to give them what they needed, to cure what ailed them, as their wounds lay deeper than she could reach.

She feared that, even though he had lived, his case might be one of them. For what was his life worth without his duty? From what she understood, he had fought for Gondor since adolescence, had no wife, no family to return to besides his father and brother, who might very well fall in the defence of Minas Tirith. If he could not fight again... what would he do? What had he to live for if he returned from this war crippled, not able to use half of his limbs? Suddenly, she hoped even more that the Elves would be able to do what she could not.

 

_ March the 4 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

He ignored the hand she had offered him and instead turned to brace his left arm against the boat that was steadying him, hoisting himself to his feet on his own, and even though his face was a mask of pain and he swayed slightly, she almost thought that he looked pleased with himself. Initially, she had wanted to scold him for his obstinacy, but she swallowed the words as she remembered his pride, a pride that was not so much unlike hers that she could not understand it. There were some things he needed to do for himself after the weeks she had been nursing him, and she hoped that regaining his control over his body might help him to fight the darkness she knew was lurking in the deep recesses of his mind. And so she made herself smile and pulled back her outstretched hand, trying to make the gesture look natural. “How do you feel?”

He grimaced. “Just as terrible as expected.”

She banished the pity that threatened to appear on her face and smiled at him instead, a bit mischievously even. “Well, considering that you are able to stand, and on your own, I might say, that is a definite improvement.”

He reluctantly returned her grin as he swayed slightly on his feet, carefully balancing his weight between his legs, and then took a step forward towards her, and another. His limp was pronounced, shaking his whole upper body as he approached her so painfully slow and without the grace and poise of the experienced swordsman he had once been, but he walked... and considering the state she had found him in, that was really more than she could have hoped for.

“ Improvement indeed,” he muttered, but his disgust for his weakened state blending with the joy of his recovery and the near exhilaration of being able to move properly again. He turned as he reached the opposite wall of the small cellar, then limpingly retraced his steps back to his blanket as Arnuilas followed him, watching his halting, pained movements. He had paled considerably in the few minutes since he had stood, the pain etching deep lines into his already rugged face, and when he turned to pace the small room again, she halted him with her hand on his forearm. “It is enough for now.”

Stormy grey eyes met her blue ones, but just as she thought that his stubborn pride might win their battle of wills, he winced and lowered his gaze as the pain finally caught up with him, and worry flashed over her features. “What is it?” In retrospection, her question sounded stupid even in her own ears, and the look on Boromir's face only confirmed her own assessment. “I am sorry.”

He jerkily shook his head, then carefully lowered himself until he felt the cool, smooth wood of the Elven ship under his hand and braced himself against it to sink down on his blankets. “It hurts,” he replied through gritted teeth, the sarcasm in his answer quelled by the all-encompassing pain, and she knelt besides him, her fingers scurrying over the bandages on his thigh. She hoped that the strain on his wounds had not opened them again, but for now, she could see no signs of additional blood, and so she moved on to his shoulder and, finally, his stomach. When she finally looked up, feeling the awkwardness of the situation as she had no duties left to distract her, she caught him frowning and with worry in his eyes, which she thought a good sign – at least he wasn't indifferent to his survival.

“ And?”

The angry, spiteful part of her that blamed him for being struck in a damp cellar wanted to ask what he meant so he had to elaborate on his feelings, a pain for a man so intensely private as he, but she fought the urge and smiled instead. “You will be fine. Nevertheless, I will check on you in a few hours, just to be sure.”

He nodded softly, but did not answer at first, and she had already turned away, allowing him as much privacy as was possible in such a cramped space, when he finally spoke. “Thank you.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed, for even though his words might seem ungrateful and shallow, she knew him well enough to hear the deep, pained feeling hidden beneath them. “You are welcome.”

 

_ March the 6 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

His wounds had not opened up again, and so she had allowed him not only to stand and walk as he had two days before, but also to dress into the remnants of his shirt and pants. He had also carefully put on his boots, struggling with the pain in his abdomen as he bent, but too proud to ask her for help, and was grateful for her forethought. They were the best part of clothing he had left, which was fortunate. He could be kept warm without his fur-lined cloak, he could fight without his mail, but he could not walk to Lórien on his bare feet.

He fought for his balance, then carefully weighed the borrowed sword in his hand and swung it, gingerly going through the parries and blows he had been taught as a child by his father, in the courtyard of the White Tower, all those years ago. He felt rusty despite having rested only for two weeks, and he was glad for the respite her absence gave him to train a bit, to relax his clenched muscles that had been forced into one position too long. He knew that his movements were not perfect, that, despite his intention to move just as he always did, he often fell into a relieving posture to ease the pain, which annoyed him, but all of that was annulled by the good feeling of a sword in his hand, of a body that, though not perfectly, obeyed his commands. He felt better just for having stood, despite the fact that he had to neglect his footwork and that he winced every time he tried to move naturally. This was what he could do, this was what he was good at, his area of expertise – not devilish magic or tales of old bards or deciding the fate of Middle Earth. That, he would gladly leave to his father, his brother and Aragorn, if he only got a few good men, a sword in his hand, and a destination to conquer or defend.

What annoyed him though was the fact that, after a few minutes of wielding this sword that was so light in comparison to his own, he was covered in sweat and panting, and had to sit down quickly, hoping that no Orc would chose this exact moment to attack him. Thinking about it, he concluded it would also be unfortunate for him should Arnuilas enter now, because she would scold him like his old nanny, and that woman had been fierce, as she had to put up with two unruly boys after the death of their beloved mother.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the cloth she had kept near and then breathed in deeply, trying to ignore the stinging pain at his right shoulder where two of the arrows had hit him, and then shook his head. Maybe Faramir should have been the elder... maybe he should inherit his father's seat, should Gondor not have a king after the end of this war. He would be a good steward, he knew it, wise and just, and beloved by all. He would have the patience to put up with foolish citizens and foreign envoys talking the matter at hand to death, unlike him... he shook his head. He had never been a patient man, and, even as a boy, had cared more for the tales of great heroes than of good kings, driving both his father and his tutors to distraction, and then, as he grew up, also the nobles of Gondor. Some of them had told him that a wife might moderate his effervescent spirit, but he doubted that. The women of the South were pretty, elegant and docile, but in his experience, they had more bowed to his wishes than he to theirs, the natural reaction of their weak tempers to his strong.

That Arnuilas was  _ not _ and would never be a daughter of Gondor was evident, and he was glad for it – he would be dead but for her will and determination. Her temper was as strong as the cold winter winds coming from the North that was her home, and he very nearly smiled at the thought. He would not get lost or be left behind on their trek to Lórien. If there was only a spark of live in him, she would kick and scream and drag him back to his feet. In his current situation, with his life at stake, that notion was comfortable indeed, more so than the idea of being stranded here with a frightened slip of a girl whom he needed to protect, though he doubted that he would have liked a woman like her at any other instance – and certainly not for a wife.

 

She returned from her detour to the top of the Falls and the Hill of the Eye after he had had time to cool himself and even his breathing, but the look on her face, her eyes shining with hope, nearly made him jump up again. “What is it? What have you Seen?”

She grinned like a child, the first time that he had seen her with such joy, such unguarded relief on her face. “Rohan has defeated the forces of Isengard, and Saruman is prisoner in his own tower.”

“ What? How has that happened?” He could not keep the incredulity from his face, but her answer did not dampen the joy he felt, only increased it, though part of him thought he had no right to such relief after all he had done to undermine the efforts of the Fellowship. 

“ I do not know; Amon Hen shows only the present, and neither past nor future. But it is true, and with the aid of Rohan, Minas Tirith stands a chance of defeating the first wave of Sauron's assault.” She knelt on the blankets besides him, the strength of her happiness barely contained in her rash movements, and grinned up at him as she grabbed his forearm. “There is still  _ hope _ for us, Boromir!”

A part of him wanted to frown at her, tell her that there certainly was no hope for him, but her happiness was contagious, and he allowed himself a small smile. “So the Riders of Rohan will come when the beacons call them?”

“ Yes. Aragorn will see to it; he is with Théoden King, and they are riding to Isengard to call Saruman out for his treachery.”

All her hope and enthusiasm vanished as he only replied with silence so grave and dark that it sprang over to her, wiping the glow of happiness from her face. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself that Aragorn was a better man than he, that he would lead Gondor through the tides of war that threatened to sweep it away, it still hurt... hurt to hear this woman, whom he had come to respect in the past few days, talk about him with so much blind faith, ignoring all the man's faults. He sighed internally – was she truly neglecting to see Aragorn's deficits, or was he the one to be blinded by his jealous anger? He knew not – and despite the hope he had seen on her face and felt in her words, there was a fair chance of him never finding out, because either of them could find their death in the oncoming battles before they met again.

He belatedly forced a smile to his face and finally met those blue eyes again, eyes that told him he had given away too much, and his only consolation was that she made no move to ask, or call him out for his petty, spiteful disdain. “I am sure he will.” If he went through the motions of trusting in Aragorn's judgement and leadership often enough, maybe he would even believe in it himself one day. The knowledge that he himself would not do better than the Ranger, as he had proven his weakness when he had tried to take the Ring, was no consolation, but at least it forced him to try harder to trust the man who, fate willing, would one day take the Throne of Gondor as his own.

She tilted her head and softly pressed his hand, in a gesture that whispered too much of pity for his taste to give comfort, but at least she had seen his unease and was merciful enough to speak of different things, things that did not pertain to the future King of Gondor, but to their own, immediate concerns. “I have taken a look at your camp at Parth Galen again; the boat is still there and untouched, besides what I have taken, so we can leave mine here and will not face the challenge of carrying it up the steep steps. We are lucky indeed – it would have slowed us down considerably.”

He nodded softly. “So when shall we depart?”

She sighed. “You know that I told you we would go when you are ready? I fear that I cannot keep that promise. Orcs are creeping near, and my heart tells me that we have already lingered too long. Tomorrow at nightfall, we will depart. I hope that I can paddle us to the end of Nen Hithoel so you can rest after we have ascended the Falls, but I cannot guarantee.”

Boromir had his doubts about this course of action – he had seen how he felt today after only a few minutes of standing and wielding a sword, how would it be to trek upstream through the wilds? But there was nothing he could do about it – she was right, he knew from the long, dark hours he had watched the edges of the Elven dagger shine in the darkness, the glow slowly becoming stronger as the night passed. He just had to endure it, to prove that the Men of Gondor were just as hardened and durable as he always claimed... and maybe at the end of it, there would even wait a little bit of safety for him, and a purpose other than defending his homeland from its arch enemy.


	7. Chapter Six: For Lórien

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Six: For Lórien**

_ March the 7 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

She had let him sleep as long as possible, and Boromir appreciated it, because he would need the additional rest, although she was making the next days and their travels a lot harder for herself by her sacrifice. When she woke him shortly before sunset, he saw that she had put the time awake to good use. His shirt and trousers were as well-mended as was possible under the conditions, and she had converted both some of the blankets and a spare coat of hers into something that would at least keep him warm. It did not look good – in fact, it looked downright ridiculous, but it would have to make do. As for his feeling of embarrassment, well,  _ she _ had seen him very nearly naked, and he doubted that they would encounter anyone on their trek that would care for his state of dress. He could think of no one to meet but Orcs, and Orcs would be much more interested in killing him slowly and painfully than in assessing his attire.

The thought must have curled his lips, albeit slightly, because she halted in packing their things and putting those she did not intend to take under the boat, looking up at him. “What is it?”

“ Nothing,” replied he, because he really appreciated her efforts, and would even more as soon as they were out in the open, cold and wet, and did not want to offend her.

“ Well, I guess I can imagine.” She grabbed the cloth that had formed his bed to put it into her bag. “Not even an Elf would look gracious in this.”

She delivered the line so drily that at first, he did not know how to react, until he slowly started to chuckle. “I guess you are right. Nevertheless, I thank you.”

She smiled up at him and then stood to pat his arm carefully. “It is of no consequence.”

He thought differently, though at the moment, he did not want to tell her so, could not bring himself to. She had saved him, and he owed her his life. That was not a debt as easily discarded as being handed a goblet of wine, or having his horse brought out for him, not one he could repay just with his thanks and a smile, walking away afterwards and continuing his life as he had before. However, he had not even done that properly, he remembered with a sudden surge of guilt towards her – he had not even told her how grateful he was that she had saved his life. At first, when he had woken up, and pain, guilt and helplessness gnawed at him, it would have felt too much like a lie, thanking her for something that he had neither wanted nor asked of her... and now that he thought himself lucky having survived, and even hoped that there would be a future for him, though a bleak and lonely one, should they win this war, the right time had passed. His neglect was draining him... and yet, what should he do? Just stand in front of her and thank her, then carry on as if nothing had happened? The very idea was ridiculous. She would feel that he had just said it to alleviate his lingering feelings of guilt and debt towards her, and rightly so, and that, he did not want. It tasted too much like selfishness, and he hoped to leave that feeling behind, though he knew that he had a long way ahead of him – just like they had, in their wish to return to Lórien.

They had packed their things and hidden as many traces of their presence at the camp as possible, and now, there was nothing to do but wait. Boromir was clad in his makeshift attire and the hood from Lórien, and looked over to her, who was peaking out through the entry into the growing darkness.

“ What about your sword?”

“ My sword?” She looked at him with surprise.

“ Would you mind lending it to me for the moment? I would be in danger if we were to be separated.”

She tilted her head. “You are in danger nevertheless, and I do not think you strong enough to carry it yet. In a few hours, you will think even your Elven cloak too heavy.”

He shook his head, hiding the gritting of his teeth at her insinuation to his weakness that he still resented. “What is a swordsman without a sword?”

Her annoyance was clear, but she nevertheless opened the leather straps that held her scabbard at her side and handed it to him. “What is a swordsman with a sword, but panting on the floor? You will remember my words.”

He turned proudly, though he could already hear the truth ringing in her assurance, and attached the blade to his own makeshift belt, instantly enjoying its comforting weight although it hung at his wrong side. “Thank you.” He had sounded haughty, he knew, and, maybe as a means of retaliation, she declared the dusk dark enough to leave and begin their journey.

“ Come.” Her voice was calm as she slipped out into the darkness with an ease and grace he envied, as pain still shot through his body with every move and every step and he fought to calm his ragged breaths and small sounds of pain. He nevertheless turned with her as she halted her feet for a last look back at the camp they had spent so many long days and nights in, and he shook his head – from here, it seemed like a miracle that the cellar had not collapsed over their heads! 

With a last, encouraging smile from her side they set off as quietly as they could, Arnuilas drawing her dagger every few minutes out of its sheath to see the first signs of Orc presence while she waited for him to catch up. It gnawed at him, that he fell back so often, even though she had considerably slowed her steps from her usual, brisk pace, and he tried to keep himself from panting as he dragged himself onwards.

They were slow... so slow. The pain in his wounds was burning as he forced himself onwards, and yet, his sacrifice seemed in vain. They were merely crawling towards the Great Fall, and even though he had been hearing its roar since the day he had woken up from his fever, it seemed immeasurably far away, so far that he could never reach it, much less climb the stairs to its top.

“ Boromir?” Her quiet voice called out through the darkness towards him, and he realized that he had fallen back again, then forced his legs to carry him further. 

“ Yes?” He pressed out the single word, and he thought he could see the pity in her eyes even in the dim moonlight. 

“ Shall we rest?”

He grit his teeth, then shook his head – they hadn't even walked for a full half hour!

“ I am fine.”

That she did not believe him was apparent in the way she turned and looked at him every few steps, not trusting him to follow her pace, but where once, he would have found her over-zealous care annoying, he now realized that the way she watched out for him and waited until he had caught up made him carry on in a way he could not have done had he relied only on the strength of his own will. She was there... and he mattered to her, and that was enough to push him forward until they reached the uneven steps carved into the rock at the bottom of the falls, even though his breathing had become heavier and heavier and the occasional cough had racked his frame.

“ Sit,” she whispered as she herself sank down on the first steps, where the last remnants of the spray cooled his heated face, and he joined her, closing his eyes immediately and only opening them again when she pushed a vial into his hands. 

“ Here. Only a sip, but it will help you.”

Even though his mind insisted that reluctance was in order, especially as both the bottle and the draught were obviously of Elven origin, he opened it immediately and had to keep himself from drowning it as a whole, so desperate was he. What would have been a mere stroll two weeks ago seemed now to be an impossible task that loomed before him, and even though he hated the idea of needing sorcery for what should be easy for him, he was not enough of a fool to believe that he would last the night without it. That he enjoyed the feel of it, the gentle, caressing warmth that spread through his limbs, loved the way it eased his breath and made the strength return to his limbs, made him resent his own weakness even more, but he just handed it back to her and nodded, hoping that none of his shameful feelings had shown in his countenance.

“ I am ready.” 

Despite his brave declaration, the stairs were hell, and every step seemed like the whole of the Misty Mountains to him, with his lungs burning and his right leg crying out every time he moved or put weight on it. At first, he tried to walk, preserving his dignity in front of Arnuilas, who had chosen to take the rear this time, undoubtedly so she could catch him should he stumble and fall, but soon, he felt so weak, so exhausted, so tormented by his wounds that arrogance and pride lost their grip on his mind. He just wanted to go on, even though the distant goal at the top of the stairs slipped from his mind until he only knew that every step forward brought him closer to safety, whatever that was, and that his torments would let him survive. He told himself that he had to take just one more step before he could rest, and when he had forced his feet to rise and placed them as steadily as possible on the stone, when he had pushed his body upwards with all the strength he had left, needing all of it for every small movement, he drove himself to take another, and another, until his mind was only a haze of pain and desperate determination to reach a goal whose importance he had already forgotten.

He had not one single thought to spare for the woman behind him, as, after a few minutes, he was reduced to using his uninjured hand to crawl up one step after the other, and he found it easier to forget her presence altogether than entertain the notion of someone –  _ anyone –  _ and especially a woman seeing him in such a state. She was tactful – or herself tired – enough not to bring herself to his attention, and only when he stumbled upon a platform of sorts, high above the river and about halfway from the top, and nearly fell over, her arm shot out and grabbed his elbow to prevent him from hitting the ground and tumbling down into unseen depths. 

He must have stared at her like a wild, wounded beast, for she instantly pulled back, and instead spoke to him quietly, but with an urgency that let him dimly realize that she feared not only for his body, but for his mind. “Let us rest here for a few minutes.”

As much as every fibre of him had craved a few minutes of repose, as efficient the mere idea of it had been when he tried to drag himself onward, now that he had what he wanted, it did not feel that good. His lungs hurt, he fought to regain control over his breath, and exhausted as he was, he only sipped a few drops of water and refused the waffle of  _ lembas _ Arnuilas wanted to hand him, for the thought of food made him near violently sick. The few minutes they stayed, he sat on the cold, rough stone floor, wet from the spray and mist of the fall, panting hard and trying to forget about all the pain he felt, and that it would intensify as soon as they got up again and moved onward. That he had not stumbled in his fatigue and dragged them both down the stairs was a miracle in itself... or had she stopped him, and he just did not remember? He knew not... and he cared not... he was too tired, to exhausted, too...

He must have dozed off or briefly slipped into unconsciousness, for as he felt her hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, he startled and opened his eyes, not aware that he had ever closed them. “What is it?”

“ We must go.”

In that moment, as she spoke those words, he hated her, no matter how indebted he was to her for saving his life, and would probably have snarled and insulted her, had he not been far to weak and in need of all his strength to keep his eyes open. So he just allowed her to pull him up from the floor and steady him with her body, and he walked on, took the few, painful steps until the stairs started again, leading steadily upwards into the darkness of the moonless, cloudy night.

Of the second leg of their journey upwards to the Nen Hithoel, he knew near to nothing but a haze of pain and the growing darkness at the edges of his vision that had nothing to do with the night, and when they reached the top, she still dragged him onward, to the boat that his companions had left there. While she readied it and carried it over to the slowly flowing water, a good bit away from the dangerous currents of the Rauros, he dropped himself unceremoniously to the floor, not caring what parts of him he could injure in the process. All of him hurt, his entire being screamed, and no additional wound could make it worse.

 

_ March the 8 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

He woke up lying in a boat just like the one he had travelled so many miles downstream in, his head propped against one of the benches, a blanket carefully draped over his body, and the soothing gurgling of the Anduin just nearby.

“ Good. You're awake.” Her voice made him squint and focus his blurred vision, and he found her sitting at the bow, where she had dragged the ship up a muddy piece of waterside to prevent it from making leeway. 

He slowly moved his hand to his forehead, searching for the pain that nested behind it, and groaned at the movement. Everything hurt.  _ Everything. _ He could not move, he could not think, he dared not to speak... he had not known that he could feel so terrible  _ at all _ . Not even when he had first awoken in the cellar to the pain in his wounds, not even when she had moved him the first time, had he felt like this, and he sincerely doubted that waking up was  _ good _ as she had claimed. At the moment, he would have vastly preferred to die while unconscious.

“ When...,” murmured he finally as he thought he detected increasing worry in her blue eyes, and she leaned forward in the reeling boat to catch his meaning.

“ You have slept through dawn and the whole morning.”

He had worried that they had been delayed by his insupportable weakness, at least for a moment, but it seemed that she had managed to get him to the boat somehow.

“ Where?”

“ At the Anduin, near the outlet to the Nen Hithoel.”

“ You brought us... far.”

She grabbed the water bag carefully and led it to his lips, this time not even giving him the opportunity to object; then again, he wouldn't have. He might be a fool, but even so, he was not misguided enough to truly think he could grab it, or even raise his hand a second time after his first, foolish attempt, made before he painfully realized the extent of his weakness. After he had swallowed, he felt better, and his throat was not as parchment dry as before. “What are you going to do now?”

She shrugged. “The current is getting too strong for me, and we must decide if we keep the boat and you help me, or abandon it all together and continue on foot. At the moment, I'm more inclined to the first option... you are not fit to walk at all.”

“ Do you regret departing now?”

She instantly shook her head, and he felt his temper flare at her instant dismissal of his sufferings, but before he could call her out to it – or more whisper her out to it – she sighed. “No. I saw fire and smoke rising from the South when we were crossing the lake, and I fear that its source was our resting place. Even now, I can see that Orcs are approaching.”

He sank back on his improvised cushion, feeling his desperation rise inside him. If Orcs were on their trail, it was only a matter of time until they found them, no matter how experienced his guide was, and then they were as good as dead. He had no hopes of outrunning a band of Orcs, not in his current state, and as soon as they left their boat, they would not even be able to cross the river to escape them.

“ Maybe you should continue alone.” It was his guilt speaking, his crusshed self-esteem that made him think or propose such a possibility, but he knew that it had been a bad idea as soon as she stared at him incredulously. After all, his proposal did not only reflect on him, but also on her – and how could he suppose her to give up the man she had nursed for so long so she could survive?

“ You surely must be joking.” He could hear no amusement in her voice at all, only cold disdain. “I have not dragged you so far only to abandon now.” She eyed him intently. “If you want to give up on yourself, that will not happen. You have cost me too much of an effort that I would let you die here in the wilds.”

She was drawing heavily on the debt he had incurred with her when she saved his life, and at this moment, he hated her for it, but he felt his pride and sense of honour rise to the occasion. “I will not. But neither will I make you sacrifice your life in a vain attempt to preserve what will not last.”

She glared at him coolly, but in carrying this point he was as stubborn as in climbing the stairs up the Rauros, and when he saw her lip tremble only the slightest bit, he knew that he had won. “Fine,” she spat out, but her tone was in stark contrast to the gentleness with which she brushed over his cheek as she fed him another few drops of the concoction.

“ I believe I shall continue as long as the Orcs are still far away.”

He nodded and tried to make himself as light as possible while she paddled, exertion clearly visible in the way she forced her body to move and audible in the way her breathing became strained after the first few strokes, and he dozed off again in an uneasy slumber into which the ceaseless sounds of the river intruded. More than once, he thought he was drowning, and only when he could feel the smooth, cool wood of the Elven boat under his hands, he remembered that he was safe and that he could trust the woman who was steering it.

As the afternoon passed and his fatigue receded with the aid of more of the Elven draught, he pushed himself up and also grabbed a paddle, even though he regretted his decision after the first few strokes when his muscles protested and bile rose in his throat. But his pride made him continue, made him raise his arms again and again and again, dipping the blade into the cold, grey water of the Anduin and drawing it back at his side where he felt his barely healed wound open up again. Part of him hoped that Arnuilas would sense his pain, that she would tell him to rest, but the current of the water had picked up while he slept and he could hear her strained breath behind him and felt how much she struggled to keep the rhythm she had set. She was too tired and too exhausted herself to care for his suffering, and so they both struggled alone.

When the Argonath with the swiftly flowing waters between them forced Arnuilas to concede that there was no chance of continuing their travels by boat even with his help, night had fallen around them, and Boromir hoped that finally, he would be allowed to rest. His wounds at his side and shoulder had bled again, he could feel it beneath the thick bandages, and his whole upper body hurt, the exhaustion of his lately underused muscles nearly drowning out the pain of his injuries. He stumbled out of the boat as they landed at the Western side of the river, and Arnuilas joined him, pulling it up the shore so they could take out their bags, and then she sighed as she stretched and gingerly touched her shoulders. “It really is a shame.”

He frowned at her, his mind befuddled by his exhaustion. “What?”

“ The boat.” Only when she grabbed her small axe, brought primarily for making firewood, he understood what she meant, and even though he could not fault her logic, he shared her sentiment - it hurt to destroy such beauty. 

“ Yes. Yes, it is.”

The blade hit the smooth, grey wood with an ugly sound, chopping a hole into the boat's hull, then Arnuilas pushed it out into the current. But even dying, it seemed to sense her intent, because it did not sink near the shore, but allowed the Anduin to drag it into the depths of the river, where the Orcs would never find it. It had not been an encouraging picture, and that Arnuilas handed him his pack before she pulled out the bottle with the Elven draught again, made his heart constrict in fear of the coming torture. He was too tired and hurt already to continue, and yet continue he must if he valued his life, even though the northern outskirts of the Emyn Muil rose threateningly before them. He took a deep gulp, then handed it back to Arnuilas, and that she only shook her head and did not berate him spoke of her own exhaustion. “Thank you.”

She chuckled mirthlessly. “Do not thank me. Before the night is gone, you will hate me with all your soul.”

The first drops of rain, coming from dark, heavy clouds that reminded Boromir uncannily of the eternal, looming darkness over the enemy's land, pounded down on them as Arnuilas led him up a small, slippery path from the river's shore to the ridge of the first of the hills. Despite the potion and its gentle caress, despite the  _ lembas _ he had eaten that strengthened not only his body, but his mind, he wanted nothing more but fall to his knees and die right there as they reached the summit, but she urged him onward, first to take cover to rest a few minutes, then to walk further, until he could see the glow of the early morning in the East. But even then, she could not let him rest, could not accept that he was at the end of his tether, that he could not take another step, and he understood what she had meant with her earlier words, for he really and truly hated her, until even she and the way she made him carry on faded from his mind. He barely saw the path in front of him, barely felt his feet, and he made himself take step after step after step, promising himself that he could rest if he only reached that rock, or that tree, or even that puddle of dark, muddy water from the rain pounding down on him. 

He had thought that his journey to Rivendell had been long and exhausting, and then he had followed Gandalf to Moria... but this, this was worse than anything he had ever experienced, made him go further than he had ever gone. Every time he thought that he had reached his limits, she stood behind him, pulled him up, told him that he could not sit, could not stop, despite the pain, despite his exhaustion, despite his fatigue. By the end of the night, he hated the weight of the sword at his side, resented even the light cloak from Lórien, but only the knowledge that she had been right all along and his wish not to give her the satisfaction of gloating over him made him continue carrying it, just as his pride made him carry on, take step after step, as the pursuing Orcs gained ground.


	8. Chapter Seven: Into Darkness

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Seven: Into Darkness**

_ March the 9 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

He woke up after an uneasy slumber of what could not have been more than a few hours, and at first, he thought that he was still dreaming of happier times, because the warm flames of a small fire basked him in heat. It felt like heaven, soothing his sore, protesting muscles, and he slowly straightened up to rub his hands over it, enjoying it while it lasted, though now he was realizing that he was not asleep.

“ Why this?” asked he the woman that sat besides him and now looked just as exhausted as he felt, her face haggard and the shadows he had noticed on her face before hardened into dark lines around her mouth and eyes by her exhaustion. 

“ The Orcs are already following our trail, and speed is of more importance than secrecy now, so we can at least enjoy a fire, even though I can't offer you any broth.” 

He nodded stiffly, the muscles in his shoulders protesting, even though he now almost regretted that they had left their small kettle behind at their camp, where the Orcs had undoubtedly found it by now. When he did not continue, his lips as heavy and unresponsive as the rest of his body and talking too tiring for him to make the effort, she did, and now that he was fully awake, he could hear how much she had to pull herself together to sound as calm and detached as she did. “I have redressed your wounds while you slept.”

That she did not scold him for carrying on even as he knew that they had opened again spoke of her quiet desperation, of her real assessment of the situation, and when she pulled her dagger from her belt, he could see for himself how the glow had strengthened, how the Orcs had gained ground on them. “Thank you.”

She stared into the flames silently, rubbing her slender, calloused hands so they would warm, and he turned away, hoping to now give her the privacy she had so often allowed himself when he had wanted to be alone with his distraught thoughts and his fears. The movement made his muscles protest, and he shrugged his shoulders carefully, hoping to relieve some of the tension from them, but failing miserably, and irritating his wound in the process. It hurt... it hurt so much, and idly, he wondered when he would reach his limits, when he would just stumble and fall, without the strength or the will to stand up again. Of all his journeys, of all his marches with his troops, this was by far the hardest, and he knew that the moment wasn't far – if the Orcs would not catch them before.

As he reached up to gingerly touch the hardened muscles of his neck, he grimaced, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arnuilas look up, and noticed with relief that the silent fear and desperation in her eyes had receded and that she even smiled at him, though only slightly. “Here, let me.”

She crouched over to him, finally settling herself behind him, and before his still slightly befuddled mind could comprehend her intent, he felt her still cold hands on his broad shoulders and closed his eyes. It felt... good, so very good, as he could feel her behind her, her fingers moving over the thick, rough cloth of his makeshift tunic, nearly caressing his tense, clenched muscles. She did not do much more than stroke, softly, or maybe prod a little at this or that sore point, but his body ached so much that even the small contact felt like exquisite torture. It hurt, yes, but at the same time, he relished the feeling so much that he never wanted her to stop so she could, at least for a moment or two, ease the tension that had gripped his body for so long, probably even since his brother had first dreamt of Isildur's Bane.

He only heard his grown when it had already escaped his lips and instantly felt ashamed for it, but she did not draw away, did not even still her movements, but continued, her voice soft in his ear, and he could feel her sincerity seep directly into his soul. “You are a strong man, Boromir. Never doubt that.”

He very much doubted her words at this juncture of his life, and had started to do so even longer before, but the simpleness of them made him smile. They were not spoken to rally his spirits for a last fight, to make him continue on an arduous road, but born out of the feeling of the moment; knowing that, despite everything he had done, at least one being on the face of Middle Earth respected him still was worth much, and he thought that could make him continue in the worst moments.

That she still did not know of his crime, that he still hadn't told her of his treachery, dampened his joy, but her soft hands on his shoulders kept him from wallowing in his self-pity, reminded him through their sheer touch that she was there, and that she would not go away, at least until they reached the end of their journey, either way. They were not friends – not yet, and maybe they would never be – but she was here, here for him, and he for her should she need him, and that companionship gave him strength in a way the Fellowship had never had. He had been alone among them from the beginning, and even more so when they had approached the end of their journey together, but with Arnuilas, he wasn't, and it made all the difference in the world.

“ You are stronger than me.” His voice sounded hoarse from exhaustion, betrayed his weakness, and he heard her sigh behind him as her hands stilled on his shoulders.

“ No, I am not.” For a faint moment, he thought she would continue, but she did not, and instead stood, then held out her hand for him to take it. Mere days ago, he would not have accepted her aid, but his pride had long ceased that hopeless struggle, and so he just reached out and allowed her to pull him upwards, not letting go of her arm until he had steadied himself. 

She stepped back when she was sure that he would be able to stand on his own, a part of him feeling bereft at the loss of contact, then looked upwards into the cloudy late winter sky. “We must go.”

“ I know.” The words pained him because by now, he knew all to well what continuing entailed, but he had no choice, and no matter how desperate he was, he would not give up his life lightly, if only because she had fought so hard to preserve it. 

She smiled at him, then they set to work together, killing the small fire and gathering their few belongings, and within a few minutes, they were under way again, steadily travelling north through the rugged hills. But fake confidence could not belie the fact that his strength was waning after the days of exhaustion behind him, while his injures still pained him and sometimes bled, and will could only do so much when the body refused to take another step. For the moment, it might carry him onward, but he knew all too well that he would falter, and the sorrow in her blue eyes told him that Arnuilas had understood that as well. When she gauged his speed and his movements, his strained breath and his stumbling steps, he could not shake the feeling that she was estimating when he would cave and she would have to continue on her own. Only the beginning darkness shielded him from her eyes as they crossed the last foothills of the Emyn Muil and then stumbled down a steep slope until they could hear the slowly running waters of the Great River behind the line of trees on their right.

Where before, they had fought their way over the mountainous terrain of the hills, they now had a narrow path to follow that led them over the soft, leaf-covered forest floor, and Boromir felt his feet grow lighter after the arduous trek over the rocks. Even though it should have been time for a rest, they continued, spurred on by the way they could speed up now that Boromir did not stumble with every step, and they followed the Anduin until he barely felt his feet any more and just continued because he knew he must, without any reason beyond that vaguely felt purpose.

 

_ March the 10 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

They camped shortly before nightfall near the river, but he did little but stumble to the point she had chosen and then fall to the ground, only rolling onto the blankets she had spread on the muddy ground at her insistent prompting. Arnuilas pushed an unruly strand of dark hair behind her ear and stared into the growing darkness, unsure if she should risk a fire tonight, then decided against it. It was one thing to warm up a little in the late afternoon, but another altogether to light a beacon that would lead the Orcs directly to them in the middle of the night. She sighed and grabbed her blanket, then draped it around Boromir's shoulders. He was so brave and so strong in the face of his injuries, and yet, it would not be enough. Though she did not tell him, and doubted that he would understand her if she did, so exhausted was she, the band of Orcs that was following them crept nearer and nearer with the hour – but there was nothing she could do about it. They could not, would not outrun them, not with his wounds, not in the weak state he was in, and, if she was honest, she slowly approached the point when she would be in no better state. She ate little and slept less, and there were limitations to what even Lembas could do for them. Fact was, they were good as dead. After all she had done and achieved, after her success in treating his injuries, after he had overcome his fever... they were dead. The futility of it all nearly made her cry and she bit her lip, forcing herself to calm her breathing and compose herself, to  _ think _ . 

There had to be something,  _ anything at all _ , that she could do to save his life, but her tired, exhausted brain could think of no way, and in all likelihood, there was none. She was alone and the Orcs behind her many, he in no state to fight... she sighed and pulled closer to where he lay, watching him in the growing darkness beneath the leafless branches of the trees above them. He was a good man, strong and noble, but all of it would not help him. He would die here in the wilds with her – a waste of life that she bemoaned quietly to distract herself from her own fear. She had contemplated death often enough, for living in the northern wilds, there was no way to avoid that thought, but now that her own was imminent, she could not deny that she was afraid. Terribly afraid. 

Careful fingers found his parched cheek and she caressed it gently, feeling his grown beard under her fingers and then the soft skin at this neck. He mumbled in his sleep or unconsciousness, she was not sure, and felt silent tears dripping down on her tunic, which, together with the warmth of his body, oddly calmed her a little. Perhaps feeling that he was alive, though exhausted, helped her not to lose her hope, and she intended to use this fact to her advantage. She rested at his side, her small hand carefully placed on his shoulder, feeling as he moved in his uneasy sleep, and drawing comfort from it, though she knew that she could not give him all that he needed, that she had failed in giving him the chance to heal the wounds that had not only afflicted his body, but also his mind.

Part of her wished to be alone in this desperate last flight, without an injured man hampering her progress so the Orcs would catch her, but no matter how much she feared death now that she could feel it deep in her bones, she knew that she could not have left Boromir behind. It would have killed the woman she was, the woman she had always striven to be, more efficiently than any Orc arrow, and she was not ready to continue her life with such guilt loaded onto her shoulders. And so she settled herself onto the blankets, the Elven dagger's glow hidden by her hood, and began her restless night.

 

She had not slept, but only dozed for a few minutes at a time until darkness had settled around them and midnight approached and she knew she had to wake Boromir, but before she could move, an arrow hit the ground next to her with a whizzing sound. She knew not if it had found its way by sheer luck or the keen Orcish senses of her adversaries, but she knew she had to be quiet to stand a chance of survival, and so she pushed the savage curse from her lips. Boromir was still clad in his cloak from Lórien, and she pulled the hood over his face to render him near invisible, then grabbed the bow and quiver lying at her side and looked up into the darkness. The light of moon and stars was dim, not enough to aim properly, but the Orcs had approached them over the ridge just behind them and she could make their forms out against the night sky, and she smiled coolly.

The first of the creatures fell before it had realized that its prey was armed and ready to fight, and the second followed suit, while the third stormed towards her, scimitar drawn. It was upon her before she could even nock her next arrow and she pulled the Elven dagger, edges gleaming viciously, and then did what all of those who had taught her to fight would probably have slapped her for, and hardly: she charged.

The Orc's first blow missed, so surprised was it by her sudden attack, and it stumbled back as she hit it with her weight, knocking it off balance. It would have gotten her though, had not a strong hand caught it's ankle and torn it to the ground, an opportunity she used to stab it in the chest once, twice, thrice.

When it was dead and black blood clung to her fingers and had crept into every fine line on her hands, she pulled up quickly and helped Boromir stand, then picked up the bundle with the medicine and the lembas, leaving everything else behind. “We must hurry.”

He nodded and stood, though he reeled a little, and she jostled him forward. “Go, I'll take the rear!” The dagger's edges had dimmed a little as she had killed their last attacker, but still, the Orcs were near, and they had to run for their lives.

They hastened over their path, sometimes struggling through dense undergrowth that had tried to reclaim it for the forest, both of them soon out of breath and sweating, but they couldn't stop. But neither could they continue running infinitely, and while she fled, ducked behind trees and hoped that the Orcs wouldn't catch up with them soon or have competent archers, she asked herself where this should go. They would catch them at some point of their flight, and then they had to fight for their dear lives... but she could not think of that now. They had to run, run as fast as they could and as far, even though they had lost all hope of escaping the Orcs, but she was not prepared to give up her life yet, and neither was Boromir. And maybe... maybe they would meet some of the rare forces of good in a world steadily darkening. Maybe.

 

_ March the 11 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

Their desperate attempt at flight had bought them a day with little rest and much running, and their way had taken them further north following the course of the Anduin, but now, they both knew that it was over. She could hear the raucous laughter of the Orcs in their back, the rattling of their armour and their weapons, and she could feel fear gripping her heart tightly. She was afraid, afraid of dying, and from the look in Boromir's eyes, it was the same for him, although he had very nearly expired before.

She had climbed up to the lower branches of a tree, and pulled him up with her so he sat at the opposite side of the trunk, her northern sword unfamiliar and clumsy in his hand while she adjusted her stance so she could shoot her bow at their attackers. It would buy them time, but not much of it – the Orcs would reach them eventually, and they knew it.

“ Thank you.”

She heard his deep, resonating voice from the side and turned to get a glimpse of him, and her heart nearly broke as she saw him smile.

“ For what?” Her voice was raw with exhaustion and croaked out of her throat, but she did not mind – her bow hand was steady, and that was all that mattered now. 

“ For trying to safe me. It would not have worked out, even if we had survived all of this, but thank you nevertheless.”

She reached out and gently pressed his large, calloused hand that was cold as death, despite their exertion before. “Do not thank me. I failed.”

“ You might not have saved me, but you have not failed me. You have given me freedom in those last days, and for that, I thank you.”

She smiled sadly, then let go of him and stood nimbly on the broad branch that she had chosen, nocking her first arrow, waiting for them to come, and come they did. When the first of the monsters appeared from the dense undergrowth at the bottom of the small valley she had chosen as their last stand, she aimed and shot, picking as her target the first, vicious looking Orc that raced towards them screaming. He stumbled as her arrow hit him squarely in the chest, and his fellows, pushing from behind, trampled him as they approached further. She fired so fast that she did not have time to aim properly, but then again, she did not have to. They were coming towards them so densely packed that any shot that missed her target hit its neighbour, but it wasn't enough, and when she tried to pull an arrow out of her quiver that wasn't there, she only smiled sadly. She had always known that it would not be, but had nevertheless tried, and now, she drew her dagger, edges gleaming viciously, hoping that it would allow her to fight at least some of them off before she died. If they killed enough of them, they might be forced to return to their vicious master, and could not plunder the meadows of Rohan further. Even in her death, she would then protect good people, just as she had done for so long in her life.

The Orcs quickly noticed that she had run out of arrows and reached the trunk of the tree they stood on, the first of them trying to climb up, but hindered by their companions who jumped to grasp them. She felt her fear grow at the mass of enemies beneath them, but quickly stilled it, telling herself that by now, they were still in a position of vantage. And there was no point in fearing them anyway – the outcome was inevitable.

The first Orc had managed to grasp one of the lower branches and pulled himself up, but she just kicked it as it tried to pull on her ankles while she ducked one of the stray arrows that were aimed at her – thanks to all the powers in Middle Earth, they were short on archers.

The next sound she heard made her blood freeze, and when she looked down, she saw all her fears confirmed – the Orcs had pulled out their axes and had started to hack at the tree they were sitting on, chopping it down to get to them, and she cursed in a way that no lady should have known.

“ UP!” she cried out and Boromir heard her, grasping a higher branch and pulling himself up even though he screamed with pain as he did so. Maybe, if they got high enough, and the Orcs stupid enough, they could be able to flee further. He followed her up and up, into the crown of the tree, keeping up with her through her longer limbs, and she used one of the moments when she had breath enough to hiss, “To the river. We must stay together!”

He nodded at her choppily and then continued on, until their tree reeled dangerously, as the Orcs hacked at it with vicious spitting sounds. “Lean down,” she whispered, pressing his hand and not knowing from where she gathered her fighting spirit, and he smiled at her bitter-sweetly.

“ You are the bravest woman I've ever known.”

She wanted to thank him for his words in the few seconds of respite they had, but the tree had started to tilt, and they both used all their weight to lean it to the direction they wanted it. It worked – the tree fell down the hill, and they tumbled down in a haze of dry dirt and leaves while the Orcs still stood at the tree stump they had created. She thought she heard something crack that sounded suspiciously like bone, but could pay the thought no heed, and instead ran, ran with all the might her fear and her terror could lend to her screaming, overused muscles. Boromir remained at her side, running though he was crying out with pain, and they both plunged forward as the reached the waterside, hitting the cool water of the Anduin while she could hear the Orcs pursuing them and the hissing of arrows next to her ear.

She let her soaking clothes drag her under, and he did the same, hoping that diving would put the Orcs off their trails, but knowing that it was only a glorified form of killing themselves without falling in the clutches of their pursuers, which would have meant a death more terrible than she cared to imagine. She grabbed his coat in the muddy water of the Anduin, not wanting to lose him, trying to retain a sense of direction, but the current quickly overtook them and they were swept away, in vain trying to swim or only to hold their head over the surface so they could breath.


	9. Chapter Eight: To the Rescue

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Eight: To the Rescue**

_ March the 12 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

She woke up to the low crackle of a well going fire, but after the first moments of relief when she realized that she was not dead, panic took hold of her. Had the Orcs found her and Boromir in the river? Had they taken them and were now nursing them only to deliver them as prisoners to Sauron?

Training and experience allowed her to battle her growing fear with her eyes closed and her breath steady so her capturers would not notice that she had awakened, and then, when her heart had slowed down again and she could think, she slowly took stock of her numb limbs. To her surprise, neither her wrists nor her legs were bound – had they thought her too weak to resist them? Then they would be in for a surprise.

She listened and heard light feet shuffling over the ground, and then words spoken in a language she knew – Sindarin! Relief washed through her – no servant of the enemy would dare speak in that tongue – and she allowed herself to relax her tight control over her reactions and sighed. She was safe. She had no idea how it had happened, but Elves had found her, and she was safe. Safe and alive... Whoever was watching over her had noticed her reaction, because she could feel movement nearby, and she opened her eyes and looked up into the face of Haldir, Marchwarden of Lórien. “You are awake. Good.”

She bit back the tears that welled up in her eyes as she too vividly imagined the darkness that had surrounded her, the way the murky water of the Anduin had filled her mouth and her lungs, her desperation as her grip on Boromir's tunic had weakened... “Boromir!”

She coughed violently after she had spat out his name, and Haldir's face instantly darkened, making her stomach clench nearly painfully. She had lost him in the dark, swift water, had let go of him because she needed all of her strength for herself, and what if they had not...?

“ We have pulled him from the river as well, and he is being taken care of.”

She fell back onto the Elven blankets as her fear vanished and left behind only bone-deep exhaustion after her long flight to the North. “Thank Elbereth! He is alive... that is more than I have dared hope for.”

Haldir handed her a bottle of water and she took it, swallowing a few sips carefully as not to irritate her sore throat, and watching the Elf in front of her with the distinct feeling that something was... amiss. It made her stomach knot tightly, and she pushed herself up again, trying to ignore the blackness approaching from the corners of her vision. “Are his injuries so severe?”

Haldir frowned at her. “They are not. He will recover in time.”

She wanted to ask what troubled him, because she needed to know, had the right to know after she'd borne the weight of their survival on her shoulders for so long, but she quelled the urge and the words did not reach her lips. She had dealt with enough Elves in her life to know the look on Haldir's face, that firm resolve, and even though he was more warrior than sage, she doubted that she could persuade him to tell her, at least not now and not in her current, weakened state.

“ You need to rest.” For a moment, she tried to resist the firm hand on her shoulder, but then she allowed him to push her down onto the blankets again, acknowledging that today was not the time to get the answers she needed to push away that terrible feeling of dread in her stomach. Instead, she forced herself to smile up at him with only the slightest trace of sarcasm – she now knew how Boromir must have felt when she had taken care of him, and she could sympathize. “I have not expected to meet you here, Marchwarden. You are a long way from Lórien's boarders.”

Haldir nodded, accepting that for now, she had given up on her previous line of questioning. “That we are. But our Lady has sent us to the South by horse, telling us there would be those in need of our help, and now we have found them.”

She breathed a sigh of relief that both fate and Lady Galadriel hat deemed her and Boromir important enough to be saved, albeit she had Seen Lórien under attack even before they had departed from their camp at the Falls. “Then we have to thank you, and the high Lady, Haldir, Marchwarden of Lórien.”

He acknowledged her words with a graceful half-bow and smiled at her. “It was both my duty and my honour.”

She sighed softly and leaned back into her makeshift pillow. “What day is it?”

“ The thirteenth.”

The answer relieved her, because she now knew that she had not been unconscious very long, and she looked up at the slightly swooning, but bare branches of the trees above, while thoughts of another tree intruded into her mind and she tightly shut her eyes, as if she could get rid of them this way. She truly had nearly died, and the thought still made her shiver.

“ What about the Orcs?”

Despite his Elven intransigence, Haldir was enough of a warrior to understand what she was asking for. “There were only thirty of them left. We apprehended them as they were following you down the River, and slew them all.”

She took a deep breath and tried to find solace in the knowledge that all of their pursuers were dead, but it was proving harder than she had thought. Too deeply ingrained were the memories of their hunt, of the constant fear and terror she had to battle, fear not only for herself, but also for the man she had saved, and she could not shake them off at will as she had hoped. “Where did they come from?”

“ They all bore the mark of Sauron, and most likely came from Mordor. Our scouts have found tracks of many more of them, and they are roaming freely west of the Anduin, until they reach our southern boarders and unite with their brothers from Mordor.”

“ So this is not the end of a dangerous journey, but the beginning.”

“ Indeed. We will depart for the North on the morrow, and even though my forces are strong enough to dispatch any group of stray Orcs, you know the vagaries of war as well as I.” She nodded jerkily, not fancying the thought of another forced march up the Anduin, and Haldir smiled again. “Do not concern yourself for now, and rest. You will feel better in the morning.”

Her exhaustion silenced every protest she might have been inclined to make, and even her restless thoughts and her worries did not keep her from falling into deep, dreamless sleep only minutes later.

 

_ March the 13 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

She was woken by a slender Elven hand on her shoulder and looked up at Haldir, who was sitting on his heels next to her, staring down at her with a deep frown. “It is time to wake up. We have to go.”

Even though she could only see the first tendrils of pink on the Eastern sky, she felt more rested than she had in weeks, maybe since she had departed Lórien so long ago, so she nodded and pushed herself up with only the tiniest hesitation and much less pain in her overstrained muscles than she had expected. Now that she sat and could survey her surroundings, she understood that the evening before, she had greatly underestimated how many of his men Haldir had led south. At least two dozen Elves were busying themselves around her, breaking up the camp they had set up two days ago, and they had brought many of the white and grey horses of the Galadhrim with them.

Arnuilas smiled, but not her companion, who looked as grave and concerned as he had the evening before. “We do not know what to know with the Man,” he said in Sindarin, and she startled, frowning at him.

“ What is the meaning of this, Haldir?” replied she in kind, her words a mere whisper as he clearly wished not to be overheard, and especially not by the object of their conversation. “Why do you speak so of Boromir? He is to come with us, without a doubt.”

“ We fear his treachery, and are concerned for his mind.”

For a moment, she asked herself what he had done while she had slept, and her fear caught in her features, plain to see for Haldir until she composed herself, summoning the incredulous mask her growing loyalty for Boromir demanded. “His treachery?” asked she, electing not to tell him about her own concerns for his sanity during the last, long weeks.

Haldir sighed, aware that she was carefully guarding her reactions. “He will not have told you.”

Her annoyance grew, fear and flight clearly taking their toll on her patience as she contemplated what the Elf was obviously proposing. “And you have not, either, Haldir. But nevertheless, no matter what he has done or not done, I have not nursed him back to life and then hauled him through the wilds for two weeks just to leave him behind now. It is either both of us, or none.”

She had spoken more fiercely than both she and Haldir had expected, she could see it clearly on his surprised face, but after glancing around quickly, at his people readying their horses just out of earshot, he nodded jerkily. “If that is your wish, Ranger, then we will take him with us, but keep your eyes on him. He is a dangerous man even wounded, and I would not want mine to be injured because of your carelessness.”

She doubted that Haldir would appreciate her sarcasm, and so she turned to gather what little of her belongings were left after their long flight up the Anduin with angry, jerky motions. The Elven dagger she had carried for so long was still attached to her belt, and her bow was lying besides her bed, but even though she feared that the water had damaged it, the Elves had filled her quiver again. Besides that, and her sword she hoped Boromir had held onto as the river swallowed them, she had nothing left but her well-worn Ranger's clothes. If Haldir changed his mind and actually decided to leave them behind, she would be in a terrible position.  _ Well, maybe I will get used to it after all.  _

His pale eyes were following her every movement intently, and when she had finished packing, the exertion to her still sore body had also served to cool her growing anger and allowed her to answer him as she knew she should. “I will, Haldir.”

He nodded again, the slight crease on his brow slowly matting out, and even managed to smile at her. “As you wish.” For a moment, he turned, observing his men's preparation and ordering them to ready a horse for her, before focusing his attention back to her. “Though we have defeated the Orcs pursuing you, the wilds are still a dangerous place, and I do not want to linger now that you have recovered. Will you ride with Boromir? None of my people will, and we are short on horses.”

“ Of course.”

When Haldir had given his orders, she had searched for Boromir among the tall, flaxen-haired Elves, but not found him, and only now, when the Marchwarden gestured towards the river's shore, she saw him. He was standing away from their rescuers, staring out at the dark, slowly gurgling water with a posture that spoke of deep thought, but if he had distanced himself or had been driven away because of the Elves' disdain, she did not know. Slowly, she walked over to him, observing that he had shed his makeshift clothing, only keeping his grey hood from Lórien, his boots, and her sword at his side, and was now clad in a lent Elven attire that seemed too tight in places, but nevertheless was an improvement. “Good morning.”

He turned towards her, away from his intense study of the Anduin whose proximity still rendered her uncomfortable, and directed the ghost of a smile at her. “You are awake.”

She nodded softly, but did not answer, sensing that there was something that bothered him still after weeks of learning to read him, but nevertheless surprised when he actually continued. “I was worried for you. The Elves told me you would be fine, but you swallowed so much water, and when I lost you in the river...”

He did not speak further, but then again, he had not to. She remembered only too well how she had felt at that moment, even though she had been barely conscious, and she reached out and softly pressed his forearm. “I know.” She waited for him to turn and acknowledge her gesture, and then smiled up at him. “But we are here, and we are not dead. Against all odds, we have survived, and we soon will be in the safety of Lórien.”

He nodded, though the thought obviously did not hold as much appeal for him as it did for her, and reached for her hand and pressed it softly with his own. It was rather clean, contrary to all the other times he had seen it, as either the river or her Elven rescuers had washed away the dirt and the blood on them, and she smiled sadly. So desperately had she wanted to live... and now that she knew she would, she was left wondering what would happen, to her, to him, to Middle Earth...

Boromir let go of her and turned to rejoin the others who had nearly finished breaking up camp. “ The Elves told me that we will have to ride together.”

“ We will.” She followed him up the muddy shore. “Or would you rather walk?”

He shook his head. “I have walked enough to last for a lifetime.”

The Elves had already saddled a horse for them, as even Arnuilas could not ride as was their custom, and when they approached, one of the soldiers handed her the reins.

“ What is his name?” asked she in Sindarin, as she knew most of Haldir's men did not speak the common language, and the Elf affectionately smiled.

“ Cilian.”

“ Then I hope you will carry us well, Cilian, and that we will not be too much of a burden to you.” Cilian did not answer, but only snorted, then turned to face Boromir curiously as its keeper disappeared to attend to his other duties. 

Arnuilas grinned. “At least good for him that we were on tight rations for the last week.”

Boromir only shook his head in mild annoyance as he stretched out his hand to let Cilian smell it, then patted its nose and took the reins from Arnuilas's hand. “You should rest for a while.”

For a moment, she was tempted to point out to him that he still sported a rather pronounced limb and was not doing very well pretending he was not in pain, but in the end, she just stepped back so he could mount, and then followed him up into the saddle behind him. Carefully, she entwined her arms around his chest to find purchase without touching his wounds or hurting him further, and adjusting her position after she'd accidentally touched the sensitive area on his abdomen where one of the arrows had hit him and he'd flinched rather violently. “Forgive me.”

He just shook his head and tightened his grip on the reins, watching as the last of their Elven companions mounted their horses with an effortless grace that made Arnuilas envious, then allowing Cilian to fall into step near them as they proceeded on the path near the river's shore they had been following since they had left the Emyn Muil.

Arnuilas could dimly remember some of the landmarks from their hurried flight two days before and hoped that they would not pass their last battlefield as they travelled north, but her shudder went unnoticed by all but Boromir. The path was too small to admit more than one horse at a time, and so none of the Elves were close enough to witness her reaction, but even Boromir chose not to comment on it, and his silence felt natural to her as darkness was intruding into her thoughts. The relief she had felt when she had understood that she was safe, at least for the moment, had worn off, been replaced by a heavy sense of foreboding that stemmed from her knowledge of the ongoing war in the South, the dire situation of Lórien, and, more recently and even more relevant to her current situation, Haldir's mysterious words about Boromir's treachery that haunted her still.

She could not very well ask him about what he had done, but yet, what the Marchwarden had told her acquired an eerie credibility by her own conversations with him. Boromir had seemed so disheartened at times when she had talked to him, and hinted more than once that she should not have saved him, because he felt that he was not worth saving. It fit to him having done something terrible to the Fellowship, something that had caused it to break, thereby not only destroying their bond of friendship, but also his self-esteem. She longed to find out, but she had nursed him long enough to understand his fierce sense of pride, knowledge that now made her sure he would not talk to her, and not here of all places, where sharp Elven ears could listen in to their conversation.

“ You should sleep,” said he after about an hour or so, as the constant rocking of the horse's movement began to lull her and she had to focus her attention on keeping her posture straight. “For once, I should take care of you instead you of me.”

She nodded softly and placed her head on his strong, broad back, clasping her hands together in front of his chest firmly, and, very soon, fell asleep to the horse's motions and the sound of his breath and his heartbeat.

 

The weight of the woman sitting in the saddle behind him had not been uncomfortable, though he had been forced to steady her various times lest she slide to the ground, and he smiled as she lay besides him on the blankets that the Elves had put out for her. He, he of all people, was the one who knew best how tired and exhausted she was, and how lightly she had slept during all the time she had guarded him, waking up at the slightest sound even though she knew that he watched out for enemies. That she now felt so secure, when resting at his back, that she would not even stir in the evening, when they set up camp again, was a compliment he could not value highly enough.

“ Boromir.” Unnoticed by him, Haldir had approached their bedside and now towered behind him, glowering down at him with the look of disdain he had sported constantly since he had woken up, sputtering and nearly choking on the water he had swallowed. Undoubtedly, the man knew what he had done to Frodo, had possibly been informed by his witch of a mistress, and now acted accordingly, giving him just a taste of what he had to expect when he met those of the Fellowship again who had survived. He could not blame him – he himself thought every possible punishment acceptably, but there where those moments when his old pride still reared its head and insisted on hating Haldir for his disdain.

“ You seem intent on staying at her side.” Barely concealed distrust seeped from the few words, and he stood as he heard them, tall enough to look the Elf in the eye. 

“ She has saved my life at least twice. You may think me a man without honour, but I know I am indebted to her, and I intend to repay that debt in full.”

Their gazes crossed, but here and now, against this elf, Boromir held his own, knowing with absolute certainty that this woman would always be able to call on him, his sword ready at her command, no matter what it was she needed him for. He would even go to the fires of Mount Doom for her if she asked, as it was his duty now... just as it had been his duty to Frodo, whom he had failed. But he would not make the same mistake again.

Haldir finally nodded and, to his surprise, was the first to look away, but still Boromir had the feeling that he had gained favour in his eyes, and his suspicion was confirmed when one of the Elves, a woman just as tall as her fellows, approached and handed him two bowls of soup. “Wake her. She will need it.”

He nodded and turned to Arnuilas even before he smelled at his own portion, carefully shaking her shoulder while she tried to turn away, obviously intent on ignoring the disturbance. He smiled, he just had to, but finally she opened her eyes to face him and then rose to sit. As she looked at him, he noticed with satisfaction that some of the healthy colour had returned to her cheeks and that she was not as pale as before.

“ They have cooked.”

She nodded and he handed her the warm, steaming bowl, her still shaking fingers holding his own for a moment before he pulled away, finally sure that she would not let the vessel fall. He watched her take the first sip and close her eyes in delight, before he remembered his own soup, and took it up, the first warm meal in what felt like months, but probably were only weeks. It not only smelled, but also tasted delicious and he instantly felt revived in a way that reminded him both of a warm fire and a smile on a frosty winter evening and the refreshing coolness of a bath in the pond in the midst of summer heat.

She seemed to felt it too, for the corners of her lips tugged upwards slowly in the first hints of a sincere smile, not the hopeless grin that she had presented him so often with during their days of travelling, which she probably had only donned to reassure him. The dark shadows under her eyes and the puffiness of her skin where gone either, and though she was far from clean, just as he, she looked better than she had even back when he had woken up from incoherent, feverish dreams of demons of the Dark Tower torturing him, which had probably only been her tending to his wounds.

“ We are making good time,” he observed while she drank and when he remembered that she probably had no idea of how far they had come during their day's travels. 

“ I have expected nothing else.” She tilted her head, then put the bowl aside. “But how are you?”

“ I?” With all the Elven disdain, he had, much to his shame, forgotten that there was one person here who truly  _ cared _ about him and how he felt, though why was beyond his understanding.

“ Yes, you.” She smiled a little.

“ I am better with every day. The limp is still there, and all of it hurts, but riding instead of walking, and the care of our rescuers, have made things much better.”

She nodded. “I hope that you will keep nothing back... and that you can forgive me for driving you through the wilds so relentlessly. It was hell for you, and I am sorry that I had to force it on you.”

“ Do not be; even if you had not succeeded, I would have forgiven you. As it is, there is nothing for me to do but thank you for saving my life a second time.”

“ You have saved yourself, Boromir. I was only there to lead you.”

She sounded and looked sincere, which, in his present state of mind, surprised him immensely, and simultaneously made him feel guilty. She still believed in him because she did not know what he had done, and his sense of honour demanded that he tell her with fierce determination. Nevertheless, he held his tongue and just smiled at her – he needed this, needed at least one person on the wide planes of Middle Earth who still believed in him, still respected him, because he himself could not. “Thank you.”

She smiled and continue to sip at her soup in silence, looking out thoughtfully over the Anduin through the darkening evening. “You do know that I fully expected us to die when I lead you into the river?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“ And you still followed me?”

“ Dying alone at the hand of the Orcs is a horrible fate, one that I wished neither on you nor on me.”

The tears that suddenly shone in her eyes surprised him, and he did not know what to make of it as she swallowed heavily and turned away. “It is.” Her voice sounded thick and heavy with with pain, and now it was he who reached out to touch her cold, shaking fingers.

“ I am sorry.”

She sighed and roughly wiped away the few tears that had escaped to her cheeks with her sleeves. “Do not be; you are right, and I was glad that you were with me.”

He laughed harshly, the emotion in his voice raw in the hope that he did not sound like the old woman he felt at the moment. “I was also glad not to be alone.”

She seemed to understand and looked away thoughtfully before she turned back to him, staring at him in a matter that told him she was determined to speak of better tidings. “How long until we reach the borders of Lórien?”

Well, that was not the merry matter he had hoped to hear of, because he feared that he would see Galadriel again, be forced to face her piercing gaze again... if her people's behaviour was any indication, she already knew, but he thought there was still this tiny chance of hiding his disgrace, and part of him very much wanted to seize it. It would mean that Arnuilas would not find out for what kind of man she had risked her life multiple times and even braved a band of Orcs for, and part of him wanted to tell his conscience that he did not want to do that to her... only that he knew that he had already, and that he was only making it worse by every day of silence. He shook his head slightly and pulled himself together, remembering her question. “Haldir spoke of about seven days until we reach the Nimrodel, maybe even less.”

She nodded softly. “So you think there will be a chance for us to do good in this war?”

His eyebrows rose at their own volition. “You are going to fight?”

“ If there is any chance to do so, yes.” She looked surprised at his reaction. “Why?”

“ Have you not done your part?”

She laughed harshly. “I have done my part many times over in the last fifteen years out in the northern wilds, but I fear that knowing this is only a small consolation when those I love die because I do not fight at their side.”

He knew not why he asked, but ask he did. “And is there one up north you love?”

The pain returned to her eyes immediately, and he then knew that it had been wrong of him to try prying such personal matters from her. “My mother and my brother are still alive.”

There was more to this than she told him, because there was the sadness and pain of a previous loss in her eyes that he knew all too well from experience, since the time he had lost both his loving mother and his father on the same day, even though Denethor was still alive.

“ I am sorry.” He was not sorry for what she had told him, but for what she had omitted, and she seemed to understand, for she nodded softly.

“ You could not stand by and let the world burn if you still drew breath, and I cannot either.”

He was on the verge of telling her that he was a man and she a woman, and that this difference gave them different occupations and duties, but then he remembered the last weeks and what she had done for him, how she had kept him safe. He had known men back in Gondor, good men, capable men, in whose hands he would surely have died, and who would have shown less strength and bravery in the face of battle and certain death than she had. No, he had no right to belittle her, and tell her that there was no place for her in this war, for there was, and she had already claimed it.

“ You are right... I could not.”  _ But what else is it that you are doing now?  _ asked the nagging voice in the back of his head, the one he usually tried to either ignore or drone out, because it told him the truths he did not want to hear.  _ You have not even tried to fight for Gondor, but return to the relative safety of Lórien now, and even if you arrive there, healers will want to keep you, to tend to your injuries again. You will not fight, while she returns to the front. She even has new arrows already. _

The thought of her returning to the heat of the battle without him gnawed at him and took his peace of mind, though why, he could not understand. She had proven to be very capable of taking care of herself, so he should not be worried about her – but yet, he was, and very much so.  _ If she dies, you will carry this debt to the end of your life, no matter how long it will be. You do not want that, do you? _

She sighed softly and put her bowl aside. “Nevertheless, I have to admit that I am tired – the months in Lórien after I had explored the Misty Mountains and the pass of Caradhras were the first rest I had in years, and I have been from home for far too long. I want to breath the cold northern air again before I die, I want to see the sun set over the Nenuial, and maybe I will even see the time when ships sail from Belfalas to the Grey Havens, and I will be on one of them.”

“ You will.” He smiled.

“ Either I will, or there will be more rest than I care for – the eternal kind.”

The thought was none of those he cared to ponder longer, bringing their conversation to an end, and soon, both of them had fallen asleep on their blankets to rest, making up for the times they had lacked it.


	10. Chapter Nine: The Truth Revealed

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Nine: The Truth Revealed**

_ March the 14 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

The rode again together the next day, and now Arnuilas was awake behind him, making a much more enjoyable companion than before. While silent brooding was certainly suited to him and his temper, knowing that she was there, sitting behind him, pointing out the ruins of old settlements or the first flowers of the approaching spring to him, or just humming quietly and just as off-tune as before, greatly improved his mood. That she was staying with him instead of joining the Elves, maybe even Haldir, improved his spirit even further, because in their trek of about thirty, she was the only one he cared about enough to actually talk to, and was comfortable doing so. But after all those weeks they had spent together, even silence between them was not awkward – they were both not very loquacious, and when they spoke, he enjoyed telling her of the South, and she was expanding his knowledge of the legends of both Númenor and the First and Second Age, which he had not studied as diligently as his father had wished when he was a boy.

From her mouth, in her soft voice dripping over his shoulder from behind, the tales suddenly held an interest he had not felt before, even those without great warriors and heroic battles. Maybe it was because she narrated them in a way totally different to that of his schoolmasters, with feeling and enthusiasm, and with a keen eye for the characters in them, their thoughts and motivations. He thoroughly enjoyed listening to her, and was faintly disappointed when the sun began to set and Haldir fell back to them, holding his horse next to theirs on a slightly wider strip of the path.

“ Are you exhausted yet?”

They both answered in the negative, and the Elf nodded. “We will be riding on then. My heart is telling me that I have to return home soon, and we will only be resting briefly to eat before we continue again.”

He could feel her nod at his back, and Haldir called out to his people to halt. They had to content with  _ lembas _ this evening and forego the pleasures of a warm meal, but Boromir had done without much more in the last weeks. When they returned to their horse after they had eaten, Arnuilas extended her hand and took the reins just when he wanted to, their fingers meeting on the soft leather. “Let me ride; you must be tired.”

His hand still held hers, unwilling to pull away because it would have admitted defeat, but the way she looked at him, nearly entreated him with her eyes to accept her generosity made him finally give in, though reluctantly. “If it is your wish.”

She smiled softly and leaned closer to him as his hand left hers, making sure none of their companions would hear her. “I know you are strong; you do not have to prove it to me every day.”

Her smile made it possible for him to take her words in jest, to ignore the barb they contained, but he felt their sting nevertheless. Did she think him so proud? Was she not appreciating his efforts to help her, to honour the service she had done to him? He sighed inwardly, but did not answer, not knowing what to say. Instead he stepped back, allowing her to mount, and then followed suit to sit behind her. Only now, with her in front of him, her body pressed against his and his arms around her waist, felt he that, though tall, she was not a broad woman, but rather slenderly built. He had not remembered her as such from the time he had met her in Lórien, but maybe she had lost weight; who would not have after the trials they had been through, the long hours of walking and the lack of nourishment.

“ Are you comfortable?” asked she from the front, and he nodded.

“ Yes.”

They continued into the night, at a slower pace than during the daylight hours, because their path, though better than before, was still treacherous and small, and the horses had to take care with their steps, just as they would have, had then been on foot. They only rested in the wee hours of the morning, and before at dawn, after too little sleep, the Elves roused them again, so they could continue their travels at first light. Arnuilas insisted on taking the reins again, but after a few hours, he could feel her body relax, and, without waking her, he took over, enjoying he comfort of feeling her sleep in his arms.

 

_ March the 16 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

When Boromir had departed their bedside the next morning, citing his need to refresh himself, she saw Haldir approach her, and smiled at the Marchwarden, her grudge soothed by time and their peaceful trek. “What is it?”

“ I need to talk to you.”

Her eyebrows rose, but she nevertheless followed him to the other side of their little encampment, not only away from Boromir, but also from the other Elves, and could easily guess the topic of their impending conversation.

“ Are you going to tell me now what action of his makes you condemn him so?”

Haldir nodded. “We are nearing the Nimrodel, and before we can enter our lands, you must know the truth. Ten days after the Fellowship had left Lórien, the Lady Galadriel called me to Caras Galadhon and assigned me to travel south, for she had seen the Fellowship break and Boromir attempt to take the Ring of Power from the Ring-bearer.”

She gasped, and could not avoid that her gaze travelled over Haldir's shoulder to Boromir, who stood next to their blankets, staring in their direction, with a steadily deepening frown on his face, and obviously very uncomfortable. But, to her own disdain, she could not bring herself to feel pity for his distress; she was too busy sorting all the pieces that now fell into place, furthering her new understanding of his character and actions in the last weeks. This was what had bothered him so, had driven him to tell her that it would have been better had he not lived, why he had seemed so preoccupied when he had asked for Frodo...  _ So much guilt _ , she thought as if feeling it all for herself, and sighed heavily.

“ So this is his treachery.”

“ It is. Lady Galadriel has seen it, and sent us out, looking for those of the Fellowship that might not have survived the breaking of it. I fear that she has not seen your intervention, though. You have saved his life, have you not?”

“ I have.”

Haldir sighed heavily. “Maybe it would have been better had he died; he could have rested in what little peace he will find after what he has done, and I would not be forced to decide what to do with him now.”

“ What to do with him?”

“ I will not let him cross the Nimrodel and enter the soil of the Naith.”

She clenched her jaw, feeling her resolve strengthen despite what Haldir had just told her. “I have told you once, and I will tell you again, I will not leave him unless I know he is safe. No matter what he has done, he is alive, and he deserves a chance to redeem himself, but he cannot, if he dies in the wilds. He hides it well, but he is still in pain, and his wounds will never mend properly if he is not treated, and soon.”

She knew that she took a risk in saying this, and Haldir frowned. “You are still speaking out for him after all he has done?”

“ I am.” She was nearly surprised to hear herself, but felt the truth of her words as much as Haldir did. “I do not know what has driven him to do what he has, to commit such treachery against all Free Peoples of Middle Earth, but I have seen him, Haldir, in a way you have not and never will. He  _ suffers _ for what he has done, he suffers and longs to redeem himself, and...” She closed her eyes and swallowed, remembering what she had thought would be their last moments in the high branches of an Oak tree. “Even though you might not see it, he is a good man, Haldir, and he deserves a chance... to heal, and to do whatever good he may to erase the stain on his honour his treachery has left. I will vouch for him.”

“ Lórien is at war, and those who cannot fight have fled to the woods. This is where we would send him, if he indeed were allowed to cross the river. You would have to escort him there, to ensure that he does not harm those of ours who are without defence.”

She swallowed harshly. Even now, her forced idleness and inaction were grating on her nerves, making her feel useless and coward, and this feeling would only grow in the days, maybe even weeks, months or years that would pass until Lórien was at peace again, or the Galadhrim could decide what to do with Boromir. But still... she was his only chance, or he would be doomed to near certain death.

“ So be it.”

Haldir looked at her thoughtfully, until he softly nodded. “I see that you are willing, but consider this: He is a proud man, and yet he feels his debt to you keenly. You will only add to it, and there is a limit to the obligations he can stand. It might make him resent you, despite all that you have done.”

She frowned, wondering how he had gained this surprising insight into Boromir's mind she should have considered herself, but finally only shrugged. “It might, and maybe it will, but you know as well as I that I do not do this to gain his services.”

“ You and I might know, but does he? Have you not seen how he looks at you, how he tries to ease your burden?”

She looked over his shoulder again, to the man she had spent so many hours with, and thought of the many instances he had tried to help her, those she had not noticed before... the night he had let her sleep, not waking her, though she had expected it and later berated him for it, and sighed.

“ I have, Haldir, and I will consider your warning.”

He did not seem fully content with her answer, but yet seemed to have no need or desire to carry his point any further. “Then he is allowed to enter our lands, and you will retreat to the woods with him, away from ours, until the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim can decree his fate.”

“ I will.” She felt the slow trickling of fear in her stomach as she told him so, a feeling that was entirely new for her, at least where Boromir was concerned. Haldir's revelation and, more so, his cautioning words, had made her wary of his presence, and even though she felt ashamed for it, the thought of staying with him in the woods, alone, was not very appealing. Yes, their tempers had not clashed in the long time they had spent together, something that had surprised her immensely, for the weeks and months she had often passed without talking to a friendly soul had made her sometimes wary of human company, but then, he had been weak and injured, and did not resent her, as Haldir had insinuated could happen. It would be different with him being in good health – despite her strength, despite her reflexes, he was still a tall, imposing man, and a formidable warrior. If he intended to hurt her and the Galadhrim, there would be little she could do about it. 

Haldir seemed to sense her doubts, for they mirrored on his own, beautiful features, but seeming like he remembered something, he reined himself in just as he was about to speak, and instead turned, leaving her to return to her travelling companion, who, by now, watched her with a clouded mien.

“ What did he want?”

“ He said that we are approaching Lórien.” It was not a lie, and yet, he seemed to feel that she had not told him the complete truth either, for he looked doubtful, and the heavy silence that descended upon them did not lift the whole day. They did not speak despite the barest necessities, and she tried to sleep to rest for her leg of riding, but even that failed, as her whirling thoughts and feelings refused to come to a halt, even when she commanded them to. When, at first, she had considered him a mystery, one she longed to unravel, she now wished that she had not found out, that she could continue to hold him in the high esteem she had felt for him during the weeks when he had recovered. Now, she asked herself if she could trust him, if she even wanted to trust him, or if he would betray her at the first opportunity as he had done with those that had relied on his friendship and strength for an endeavour so much greater than her insignificant dreams and fears. 

 

_ March the 17 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

After one day, her silence began to grate on his nerves. He knew not what had happened, could only strongly suspect that it had something to do with her conversation with Haldir that fateful morning, but he felt fear gripping his heart ever since he had returned from the river and saw her looking at him with such... fear? Disdain? Mistrust? He did not know, and part of him did not want to find out, hoped that time would return them to their previous state of easy companionship, but he doubted that this would happen. Something had changed irrevocably between them, he could easily feel it in the way she held herself rigidly behind him in the saddle, did now allow herself to relax against his body and sleep as she had done previously. Oddly, he missed the feeling of it, and the place where her head had rested against his back felt unusually cool as they rode day and night, their Elven guides obviously intent on reaching Lórien in better time than Haldir had estimated. He could feel his still recovering body resent the exertion, but was too proud to ask Arnuilas to take his place, even when the path before him fell into hazy darkness and the Elven stead was forced to find its way on its own during the course of the evening.

It was only hours later, when a slender hand touched his forearm in a gesture of familiarity that bittersweetly reminded him of their former closeness that he jerked his head upwards again. “What is it?”

“ Watch out.” Her voice was only a pained whisper as she gestured towards the night sky over the receding tree line, and then he saw the black smoke dancing in the reddish light of burning fires. “The Golden Wood is burning.”

Their Elven companions had not missed the signs either, and even though Boromir did not speak their tongue, he could hear their love for their home and the pain they felt on its destruction in their mournful cries. He sped his horse, as their group had picked up speed, was racing through the last trees, and as they left the forest, they could see the fires in the distance, the burning pyres of mellyrn and the swathes of destruction breaking into the golden canopy of leaves. “Ai!” cried Haldir before them. From the single syllable, his pain was just as palpable as that of his companions, and even though he was not fond of him, Boromir could understand his pain better than he cared for. Sauron's iron fist had long ago reached the woods and meadows of Gondor, but he still remembered his anger when he first saw Orcs sully the beauties of Ithilien.

Haldir halted his horse, and Boromir approached him. “My heart told me to hasten my steps, and yet have I been to late. I should have defended the Naith instead of riding south.”

“ By Lórien has not yet fallen,” replied Boromir, seeing the golden light that still opposed the darkness longing to seep over the river from the fortress of Dol Guldur, and being surprised by his own words of comfort. “What was lost can be reclaimed, what was destroyed be built again, and, in time, Lórien might return to its former glory.”

Haldir sighted deeply. “I fear that time is what Lórien does not have, even if the Dark Lord should be brought down; but now we must hurry, or the forces of the enemy will find us before we can join that battle and help defend what is dear to us.”

They rode hard, harder than in all the days and nights of their travels north, though Elf, Man and horse were tired, rushing to pass the northernmost edge of the field Field of Celebrant, and hoping that it were not many Orcs that had made their way into the edge between the three rivers. But their promises of safety were in vain, for as they approached what used to be the southern border of the woods of Lórien, they found Orcs and Goblins cutting, burning and pillaging the beautiful trees which had only been hinting at the first salute of spring. Boromir found them beautiful even toppled and torn to pieces, and knew that the Elves would mourn them, and would have done so now had they not been under attack by the forces of Sauron.

Boromir had seen Legolas fight, who was a strong and capable warrior, one he would always like to see at his side in battle, but Haldir was different. He rode front, coaxing his exhausted horse to even more speed, sword drawn and upraised, and the Orcs that found themselves in his path fled his presence, and dared not approach even as the Elven warriors and Arnuilas at his back showered arrows down on them, killing plenty. But no matter how bravely the Elves fought, their battle was still a retreat, no excursion, and as soon as Haldir had seen the last of his companions pass into the woods, he turned, the near palpable glow of his power vanishing, and followed them onto the hidden paths of the Galadhrim the Orcs had not discovered.

Even in the growing darkness of the forest, Boromir could see that not all of their party had made it to safety. A quick count revealed that at least two Elves and one horse were missing, but they were not of immediate concern to him; he was worried for the woman behind him, and as soon as Haldir called them to a halt, he turned as much as he could in the saddle. “Are you injured?” His breath was still ragged, and he had to press out the words, but at that moment, he cared not.

He heard her exhale with force and felt her draw nearer to his back, her voice a mere whisper in his ear. “I am not. You?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, he shook his head, and she quietly pressed his arm, waiting in silence as Haldir assessed the state of his troops, finding what Boromir had already seen, before they continued through the darkness of the night until they reached the river of Celebrant. Even in the dim starlight, Boromir could see that its clear, cold waters were now marred with the blood of what Boromir hoped were Orcs, not Elves, and they dismounted as Haldir approached them and bade them to follow him down to the river. His whistle, clear and loud, echoed through the night, and nearly instantly, an Elven woman, clad in the grey garb of Lothlórien, appeared at the other side of the river from the dark shadows, only visible when she moved. She cried out in Elven, and Haldir answered, but even though he wanted to know what was spoken of, he dared not ask Arnuilas to translate, until Haldir turned to face them again. “Our ways must part now.”

Arnuilas nodded, like she had expected him to say that, and again, he wondered what she and Haldir had talked of two days back. “I will go east, to defend Caras Galadhon against the threat from the East, and you will travel to the heart of the forest, where our people hide from the dangers of war.”

Boromir looked up in surprise. Nobody had told him of this plan – he wanted to fight, to redeem himself by dying protecting the Elves of Lothlórien, though probably, from what he had seen just now, they had no need for his hand on a sword that was not even his own. And that Arnuilas would not go to the front, when she had told him that she longed for her idleness to end, was another mystery to him – why would she do such a thing, let herself be hidden away like a child or a feeble, old woman? That was so unlike her that it increased his worry. Maybe she had been injured? Maybe she was not as fine as she seemed, and there was something he had missed... something she had not told him...

“ Please.” Arnuilas stepped forward and touched his arm, her blue eyes looking up at him entreatingly, and he swallowed his pride and his protest, and nodded at Haldir tensely. 

The Elf turned to face Arnuilas. “Are you sure of this?”

“ I am.”

“ Then it is settled. You will have to leave your mount behind, as it cannot cross the river, and continue on foot.” Both he and Arnuilas nodded, and then watched as Haldir and the woman swiftly constructed a havering bridge like the one he had crossed the Celebrant on the last time. When they were finished, Arnuilas stepped forward and clasped Haldir's arm, then, after some whispered words in Elven he did not understand, released it, eyes dark and grave in the receding light, as the Elf turned to him. “Farewell, Boromir, son of Denethor, until we meet again in these uncertain times.”

“ Farewell.” His mouth was parchment-dry as he nodded, watching Cilian be led away by the Elves, and he heard Arnuilas sigh next to him, before she climbed the rope to cross the river. Boromir followed her, more hesitantly, as the pain in his shoulder and his limp, pronounced now after so many hours of riding, hindered him, but they nevertheless made it to the other side, and silently watched Haldir on the other side disconnect the ropes from the trees. 

After his work was complete, he stood, raising his hand in one last greeting, before turning away and leading his group towards Caras Galadhon, where the golden light of Lady Galadriel's power was still opposing the forces of Dol Guldur. Boromir longed to join him, but for reasons he could not understand, his path was a different one, and he and Arnuilas followed their Elven guide into the golden darkness and silence of the woods.


	11. Chapter Ten: The Golden Wood

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Ten: The Golden Wood**

_ March the 18 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

They had walked through the night until both of them stumbled and tripped, but their leader had not relented until, faint though, but unmistakeable, they had heard soft, mournful Elven voices singing in the darkness, and she had shown them a flet that, as she had told them, would be theirs “until they had no need for it any more.”

At that time, Arnuilas had shied away from the thought of why they could have no use for it, and had, just as Boromir, quickly succumbed to the sleep of exhaustion that had carried them through the whole day. Now, as dusk settled comfortably over the golden trees, they stared out into the growing darkness westwards, where the sky was still painted red by the pillaging forces of Mordor, waiting for what, they knew not.

“ Do you think Lórien will fall?” asked Boromir from behind, where he was leaning against the trunk of the tree they sat in, and she slowly got up to join him, hoping that a little bit of conversation, though it was not about the issues she longed to talk through, would take her mind off her constant worrying.

“ I know not; as I led you north, I was sure that nothing, not even the Nine in their joined force, but Sauron himself would be able to destroy Lady Galadriel's protection. Now, seeing what havoc his minions have already wreaked, my conviction has waned, and my heart fears. By now, Rohan's last stand must have reached Minas Tirith, and will be facing Sauron's forces, and the only one who could tell us about this battle is engaged in repulsing Dol Guldur.”

“ You think she could?”

She smiled at his surprise. “I am sure she could. You have seen Haldir ride into battle, and it was a fearful sight to behold, but he is but a boy against her full force of power. She was born and has lived in the West, and travelled to Middle Earth with Feanor in his quest for the Silmaril millennia ago.”

“ I knew not of her full power.” There was wonder in his voice, and trepidation, and she smiled softly at him. 

“ Fear not. Few know, for her kingdom is hidden from the world, but yet... even she would wither and fall if Sauron turned his eye on her, and if Minas Tirith falls, that day will not be far.”

“ I have faith in the strength of Men.” He sounded as if he only said so to assure her, to allay her fears, and she smiled sadly at him.

“ Please, do not. We all carry our burden of fear, and in times of forced idleness, we feel it most keenly, but I will not break.”

He looked at her with surprise, for she had grasped the hidden truth behind his words so quickly, and his voice sounded hoarse as he asked, “Then why are you here? You could have gone with Haldir, and fought at the Eastern border.”

She sighed deeply, not knowing what she should say to him, but in the end deciding on a lie, though her heart told her that this was the wrong course; she was not ready yet, ready to face his wrath, not only at her, but also at those who had helped him, and maybe even at himself. “Look at me. Do you truly think that, in my present state, I would be of much use there? I think not. Few warriors could fight after the ordeals we have been through, and maybe, if I am rested enough and will not be needed here, I will join them.”

“ Maybe?”

Again, she had said too much, and she sighed. “If there is still time for it, and we will not be part of Lothlórien's last battle, no matter if we join it or not.”

To her surprise, she could feel him draw closer, and finally, his arm rested around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him until her head rested on his shoulder. She let him be... it was a small measure of comfort, no matter if she trusted him or not, and it was so hard to care and to fight, when part of her felt that this war was already lost, no matter what she did.

“ You should not talk so. As you said, there is still hope – even if the Golden Wood falls, and we will be forced to aid in its last defence, the fate of Middle Earth will not be decided here in the North, but down south...”

“ You are right.” She edged closer into his embrace, feeling his comforting warmth and strength seep through their clothing, even though she knew that his strength was only that of the body, and not of mind. “Even if there is no hope for us, for others there might still be plenty.”

He held her until her breath, hitching as tears threatened to escape, had calmed down again, and she slipped out of his arms, and quietly descended down to the ground, hoping to speak to the Elven refugees.

 

Boromir stared out into the darkness whence she had vanished, or escaped, he knew not. Unnoticed by him, on their long way north to what they had hoped was safety, the confidence that had been shining so brightly from her eyes, the trust in Aragorn's leadership and strength, had vanished, and by now, she was even more desperate than he. The sight of it made his heart bleed; she had been so fierce in her belief that all would be well, that this war would end favourably for them, and had lent him some of her conviction in the process. Now seeing how frightened she was, he felt that he had to give some of what she had gifted to him back to her, though he knew not how. He was not a man of words, and could do nothing more than hope that his presence had not given her more discomfort than it had eased her mind, and that she had not fled from him.

He raked his fingers through his hair harshly, then settled back against the tree on the blankets and furs the Elves had left for them. No matter what her distress, he was glad to have her with him. Though, at first, her presence had made him uncomfortable, he now hoped that she would stay with him – she was what held him grounded in this world of Elves and their houses in trees, and, he admitted, she had become dear to him in a way he could not yet identify. After so many days in her presence, he would have felt lost without her, especially amongst a people he could not understand, and so few of which spoke Westron.

He waited for her return as dusk finally settled over Lórien and a few stars shone through the relentless red glow over the leaves, and even longer, until he heard quiet movement on the rope ladder leading up the tree, and he called out, “Who is there?”

“ Arnuilas,” replied she, in a voice that spoke of no distress, and he allowed himself to ease his grip on her sword at his side.

A few moments later, he saw her emerge onto the platform and smiled at the sight of her, for she had used the time of her absence well. She had shed her old, threadbare leather armour for a sheer green and white dress of Elven making, and her hair, though obviously wet, had now been allowed to escape the confines of her pinned up braid. “I have managed to fetch us some warm water, so hurry before it cools.”

He heeded her advice, crawling up and down the tree carefully with his injured leg, and when he returned in clothes that fit better than those he had been lent before, she had set out a meal for them on the wooden floor of the flet. Smiling, she invited him to sit besides her. “Our hosts are too gracious.”

“ The are,” agreed he, though he feared that nothing would make him a great friend of the Elves, he could now, without the Ring calling to him and clouding his judgement, acknowledge that they had done well by him. 

They ate in silence while he watched her out of the corner of his eye, noticing that what he had suspected before was true. She really had lost weight, and now that she was wearing a dress that clung to her figure, it was all too obvious. “It has been a long time,” said he, and she looked up from the heavy stew she devoured.

“ A long time since what?”

“ Since we had rest and a decent meal.”

She smiled. “Indeed, and I feel better for it now, though I am sure that not only nourishment and rest, but also being clean after months in the wild contributed to it.”

He did not have to ask what she meant, and what she alluded to, and was relieved by her assurances. “You do look better than you had.”

Her laugh warmed his heart. “I fear that this is none too difficult a feat; I am fully aware that I must have looked terrible.”

“ You have not; when I woke up, and saw that you were not an Orc, I thought your face was the most beautiful thing I ever beheld.”

She leant back against the trunk of the tree, laughing again. “If you want to flatter me, you are not doing well, but I can understand what you mean. When I woke up in camp and heard voices speak in Sindarin, I was so relieved that they had not gotten me...”

“ You were unconscious for so long, I was worried about you.”

She shrugged. “I feigned sleep for some time, because I feared what Orcs would do to me once I was awake. They delight in torturing their victims.”

He already knew, had seen enough plundered and pillaged villages in what had been Gondor's lands before the Dark Lord took them, but she had spoken with such grim bitterness that he knew there was more to her words than the pure information.

“ It seems that we are terrible companions,” said he, hoping to make light of his words, but only succeeding in sounding odd.

“ What do you mean?”

“ We always return to those dark topics we should be avoiding, as there is nothing we can do about it now.”

“ It seems that we do,” replied she, and began to collect their meal again, busying her shaking hands. “Those are the matters that rest close to our hearts now, as the fate of Middle Earth stands on the edge. But if you want to, tell me of Gondor again; it might be at war now, but it is still full of people, who, some day, might even find their laughter again. Hearing of it, of the city that is, after millennia, still home the home of my people, makes me feel less forlorn, and maybe you feel just as I.”

He nodded as she settled next to him again, and then began to speak, of his childhood in Minas Tirith, how he had chased his brother through the streets with the other boys, and how his father had locked them both in their rooms in the Tower for a week after they had sneaked out at night and bathed naked in the courtyard's fountain.

She laughed at what he told her, and, as the moon wandered the sky above them, finally fell asleep on the blankets besides him.  _ The moon? _ he asked himself and stood, peeking through the thick leaves of their mallorn. He had never seen a sign of the moon in the month they had spent at Caras Galadhon, and felt his worry now rise; had Galadriel's power so waned that she could not control the flow of time any more?

The woman lying next to him moved in her sleep, and he picked up the blanket she had shed, draping it over her shoulders again. This was only one more thing he could neither understand nor control, and he resolved on not thinking on it, at least as much as he was able.

 

_ March the 19 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

They had spent much of the next day resting and looking out east, though Arnuilas had disappeared for a half hour or so to gather news, and when she returned, he felt his countenance light up at the sight of the second sword she had brought, longer and heaver than the one he currently wore and that actually belonged to her.

“ What is this for?” asked he and she smiled.

“ We can as well use the time, can we not?” She presented the sheathed sword to him and he took it, slowly drawing the blade and examining it.

“ It is of Elven hand, although their craftsmanship, as many things in this declining world, has waned in the years after their exile from the West.”

He swung it tentatively a few times, cutting through the air, and circling it around his wrist. “It is a good sword.”

She smiled. “It is, and, I think, much better suited to you than mine.”

“ Yes, I think so too.” He opened his leather belt and retrieved her sword, handing it to her hilt-first, and she smiled, drawing it with the smoothness of long practice, then laying the sheet on the ground carefully.

They circled on the wooden flett, her feet moving soundlessly under the hem of her dress, while his boots, well-worn after the leagues and leagues they had carried him, thumped on the ground, the rhythm only broken by the pain in his leg and the limp it caused. She smiled near tauntingly. “Now I know why they call you the forbidding Captain of Gondor.”

“ They do?” asked he and he could not deny that part of him felt flattered by her words, at least until he noticed the mischievous grin on her face, an expression he had not seen before. 

“ Yes.”

She used his slight confusion to test his defence first, and he parried, raising his sword and wincing only slightly at the pain in his shoulder; he supposed he had to get used to that, and the sooner, the better.

The faint edge of worry that crossed her face gave him an advantage, and he used it for a few blows, testing her protection this time, and seeing that she parried neatly, with good skill and a quickness of movement that presumably stemmed from her training with the bow.

“ Well, looking at you, I wonder why the Rangers have not sent all of their ladies south; you are a fearful sight to behold!”

She laughed lightly, then stepped forward with a quick series of blows, accelerating their pace and forcing him to parade with the assistance of his second arm. “Trying to deter me from speaking my mind?” asked he, and she added another swing for good measure, though he could see, both on her face and in her movements, that she was not serious at all.

He also was not, especially as, by now, he could already feel the pain rising, and how his breaths shortened considerably. Nevertheless he advanced, and every one of his blows was accompanied by a word. “You... will... not... stop... me... from... telling... you... that... you... are... the... most... admirable...woman... I... have... ever... met.”

As he had finished his sentence, he was out of breath, and, though she was in a much better shape than he, the thoughtfulness that had engulfed her, presumably because what he had said, made her sit down, and did not leave her for the whole day, making him wonder if he had said or done anything wrong.

 

_ March the 20 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

He woke up in the wee hours of the morning, shortly before dawn, to a small sound he could not identify at first, until he heard it again, coming from the woman curled up to a ball next to him... she was sobbing, quietly, but nevertheless clearly audible in the silence of the nocturnal forest. For a moment, he knew not what to do, listening to her, and pondered feigning sleep so he would not disturb her... but she sounded so desperate, so lonely, that he could not. Should she hate him in the morning for disturbing her, if she dared.

He turned around and bridged the small gap between their makeshift beds, sitting next to her, and looking down at her form that seemed so small in the cold light of moon and stars. “Arnuilas?”

She did not answer, but neither did her sobbing cease, as she was seemingly unaware of his presence... crying in her sleep like a small girl was not something he had expected her to, but then... maybe it was oddly fitting. She was so strong in the bright light of the day, and yet he had always known that life in the North had never been kind to her, and that there was pain in her past that continued to burden her to this day forth.

“ Arnuilas?” he whispered again, and, as she did not stir, he reached out and touched her shoulder, gently shaking her.

This drew a reaction, for she turned under his touch, reaching out for his hand and pulling him closer to her, murmuring quietly in her sleep. “Berdor...”

He was of half a mind to accept her invitation, however unconscious it was made, until he heard her say that name, and shook her shoulder harder. “It can't be... he is not dead!”

“ Arnuilas.” His voice had grown louder, and only then she startled and opened her wide, fearful eyes, staring at him unseeingly until she seemed to realize where she was.

“ Boromir.”

She spoke very quietly, as if to make up for how much his voice had risen, and sat abruptly, wiping the tears from her face in a harsh motion that did not go well with the elegant dress clinging to her figure. “Are you well?”

She swallowed harshly and nodded. “Yes. Just a bad dream.”

“ It sounded very real.” The way she closed her eyes in pain made him think better of his intention of speaking about it, born out of his curiosity, and he reached out to pat her forearm in gentle helplessness, not knowing what to say to her in her sorrow, until she spoke. 

“ It was real.” She stared off into the night in silence, but he knew better than to ask her what she meant; she had spoken now, and he was sure that more words were to come. “It was near twenty years ago, but I still dream of it sometimes...” She sighed softly. “I was engaged then, to a man I had known for all my life, had grown up with him... but he was killed before we could honour our promise.”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and saw her emotions, barely concealed, play on her face in the pale moonlight. The pain was not as fresh as he had expected, and yet, he could see that it had left deep wounds...

“ I think if I would have known right away, it would have been easier, but he did not return from the wilds, and we had no notice of him for nearly five years, until a group of Rangers raided an Orc camp to keep them from attacking Bree.” In stark contrast to her face, her voice sounded almost conversational. “Then they found his head on a pike, and his ring, the ring I had given to him, still on his finger, hanging around the neck of the Orc chieftain that had slain him.”

He forced himself not to stare at her, either in pity or horror, but instead looked on ahead, and then, as he thought he had his voice under control again, he said, softly, “You have my sympathies.”

His words meant nothing in the face of such grief and pain, he knew that as he imagined to think of the moment she had relieved in her dreams, when she had found out about the death of her beloved.

“ Don't,” answered she, very quietly. “If he had not died, I would be home, tending to a dozen children or so, and could not have rescued you.”

“ Another Ranger would have been there.”

She turned to face him, eyes shimmering like dark jewels in the twilight with unshed tears, and carefully touched his cheek with gentle fingers. “And would that have been as good as it was?”

He thought about her words for a few moments, not only grasping to find an answer, but also reflecting on what she could have meant with them besides the obvious, and then softly shook his head. “No. I was glad that you were there with me, and no one else.”

His words were the closest he had ever come to admitting that he had began to care for her beyond the debt her saving his life had incurred, that by now, her opinion of him was of importance, and that he did not want to lose her esteem as he surely would when she found out about his treachery. After Haldir had talked to her, he had briefly entertained the notion of her already knowing about it, but it was not... it just could not be. She would not be with him if she knew that he had tried to seize the Ring of Power – she was not that forgiving. In fact, nobody was.

Her fingers had long left his cheek, but she still smiled at him, and then inched closer, just as she had a few days before when he had comforted her, resting her head on his shoulder, drawing her blankets around them. “Will you stay with me?” asked she quietly, very near anxiously, and he smiled down at her.

“You have not left me, and neither will I you.” He pulled her closer, put his heavy arm around her shoulders and clumsily stroked her hair. 

She sighed softly. “Thank you... I fear that I have been alone for far too long.”

He could very well imagine that she, forlorn in the wilds with her grief, had suffered, and that this had left scars he knew nothing about, though he was surprised that she would confide in him... in him of all people, he, who knew so little about anything besides the concerns of command and warfare.

“ You are not,” he whispered, as he thought that this was what she wanted to hear, though painfully aware that he was lying. If she was not alone now, she would be, at least as soon as she found out about what he had done. That he was not telling her was only accumulating more debt on his already overstrained conscious, but he did not want to hurt her; and, selfish man that he was, he did not want to hurt himself, either. And the argument, surely followed by an estrangement, that would undoubtedly take place as soon as he, or one of the Elves, brought his treachery to light... he doubted that he could bear it. He did care about her and her opinion, and he did neither want to see nor hear her reproach.

For a moment, she rested in his arms, but then, she untangled herself for a moment and looked up into his face, big eyes trained at him intently, but with question in her eyes. For a heartbeat, he knew not what she wanted him to answer, until she smiled, her fingers softly caressing his cheek. “That is a nice thing of you to say, but both of us know that it is not true. In the end, all of us are alone.”

There was such loneliness in her eyes that, instead of answering, he pulled her back into his arms, hoping that she would draw at least a modicum of comfort from his presence. “In the end, this might be true, but tonight, you are not. Rest, if you will, and I will watch over you.”


	12. Chapter Eleven: Under Attack

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Eleven: Under Attack**

_ March the 2 _ _ 1 _ _ st _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

They had woken and gone through their morning routine in awkward silence, neither knowing what to say or do about the events of the night, and even as they picked up their swords, they could feel the thick tension between them. What had been playful before was now, though they were not fighting in earnest, becoming increasingly serious, and in tacit agreement they set aside their weapons not much later.

As noon approached, haze obscured the clear rays of the sun and heat, unusual for the middle of march, piled up in the forest around them, the air stifling and making breathing difficult. “What sorcery is this?” murmured Boromir angrily, staring out over the flittering golden leaves of the forest before he could remind himself that this would not help and turned around again to sit.

Arnuilas shook her head, then moved to stand again. “I do not know, but I fear it is the work of the enemy. Maybe the Elves will know.”

A fraction of his being was glad that she had gone and taken the awkwardness with her, but the majority missed her – in a world that had turned against him, in a foreign land full of Elven witches and wizards, her presence, her smile, even her intent frown when she stared into nothingness or her fear were of comfort to him. She was something he could understand, at least to some extent, and... well, she had not left him yet, maybe she would even stay with him until this cursed war ended, one way or another. He truly hoped for it.

The minutes stretched until she returned, bringing some food with her, but her countenance had changed – while before, there had been a challenge hidden under her outward calm, it was now gone, and he wondered what it was until, after their late lunch, she spoke. “They fear Dol Guldur will attack tonight, tomorrow at the latest.”

He nodded softly. “Then this cursed heat was sent by Sauron to weaken the defences.”

“I suspect so.”

She stared out in silence, the tension between them replaced by one greater than their personal insecurities, one that encompassed the whole valley they camped in, and quite possibly stretched out to the shores of Anduin, where the Elven forces stood against those of Sauron. Maybe it went even beyond it, maybe the Eastlings and Haradrim that fought with Mordor also felt fear and apprehension upon riding into battle, but Boromir's compassion with them was limited. They were the enemy, they had aligned their fates with him, and Minas Tirith had fought them for ages, even before the Shadow returned from the North to his former stronghold of Barad-dûr.

The day passed agonizingly slow, but finally, the sun sank bloody and red over the Misty Mountains in the West, and both of them went through the motions of preparing for sleep, though he knew that it would not come to him easily even as he lay down on his blankets and wished his companion a good night. He was... afraid. He could not claim anything else, and yet, he would have been reluctant to admit it after years of command taking over when battle approached, though it was one he would not participate in. The Captain of the White Tower did not show fear, lest he disturb the confidence of his troops, but here, he could not hide behind a door or inside his tent. She was with him, and she saw him, could hear his fear with every breath he took, every time he moved on his blankets, and she had witnessed his worst hour. He would not fool her, and yet, where this thought should have disturbed him, it it did not, more on the contrary... he did not have to care about his reputation with her, and that was one thing taken off his back, one thing less he had to worry about besides their survival.

Nevertheless, he tried to calm his breathing, for his benefit this time, so he could catch at least a few hours of sleep before dawn or battle woke him again, but it would not work. His thoughts swirled and wandered restlessly, even as weariness crept under the lids of his eyes, to his home, the White City, his father, his brother. Were they alive still? Had Minas Tirith fallen, and was he Captain of a ghostly, destroyed town, where the Orcs and Haradrim of Mordor feasted in the stone halls?

He could not shake the thought, drive that picture that stole his rest out of his head, and while he lay waking, his imagination added gruesome details to the all too lively images. His father, lying slain in his own blood under the bare branches of the White Tree. His brother, fallen in battle at Osgiliath and floating down the Anduin, just as he had nearly done. The men he had commanded, had ridden out with proudly, now run through with the swords of the Haradrim, or pierced by their arrows, left in the streets to rot without even a proper burial. Their wives, their children, ferreted out of their hiding places in the White Mountains, with a fate no better than slavery and very possibly death at the hands of Sauron's minions – for boys could grow into men with hearts filled with hatred, and even girls and woman could take up the bow and the sword, as the lady lying besides him prove amply.

He carefully rolled in the darkness, so as not to disturb her, and watched her form under the blankets and furs the Elves had provided them, the way she writhed slightly, tossing and turning, just as he, and stilling after the most of violent twists as if she remembered his presence, and that both of them were supposed to sleep. If the way she stirred had not given her away, the hard tension in her back he could see as soon as he moved would have, making him want to reach out and touch her, massage her just as she had done for him. Her small shoulders would nearly disappear in his strong hands, he was sure, and the idea held some allusion until she turned again, her wide blue eyes staring blankly into his for a moment until both of them caught themselves.

He felt his cheeks burn, glad that the darkness would hide his embarrassment, and she sighed, pushing her hands through her long, dark hair, brushing it from her forehead. The way she looked at him, the way she moved, had broken the illusion they had both held onto that the other was asleep, resting, and finally, she sighed heavily. “I guess we might as well talk... I cannot sleep anyway, just as you.”

He nodded clumsily and watched as she sat, pulling her blanket around her as she leaned against the trunk of the tree, then he moved to join her, positioning himself close to her so they could speak in the quiet darkness of the night without disturbing their Elven neighbours, or so he told himself. “So you have seen through my pitiful ruse?”

She did not answer, and his equally wretched attempt at humour died down in the darkness of the night, but, just as he started to feel anxiety that he had insulted her, she moved closer, her hip touching his, and put her head on his shoulder, making his arm move around her, just as he had done the night previous. It felt good; all the awkwardness of novelty had worn of after she had slept in his lap, and her body relaxed into his, her shoulders sagging, contrary to when she had lain on her bed. If the comfort she experienced from their closeness was any to what he sensed, she had to be a lot better than before.

Midnight came and went, but the ease and familiarity they felt died away in the oppressing darkness from the East, the distant sounds of explosions echoing into the forest from the battlefield and driving away their comfort as the omnipresent threat of Sauron and the fact that they were in a land under siege crept back into their minds. Next to him, he felt her stand, shedding her blankets, and she walked to the edge of the flet, watching out over the ocean of trees before her. “There is fire in the East, but more, I cannot say.”

He wanted to move to join her, but as he stood and saw the red glow and the rising smoke obscuring the stars, she had already drawn away, pacing restlessly over the flat wooden surface, now venting all the energy she had contained when she had pretended to sleep. “You want to be out there, don't you?” he asked quietly, unsure of what to say, how to calm her.

“Who would not?” She had only turned for seconds to snap at him, then resumed her restless stride from one end of the platform to the other, like a caged animal, and he looked at her with remorse. If it had not been for him, surely she would be in the heat of the battle, and not pacing here with no way to assuage her tormented feelings.

“I am sorry.”

She spun around sharply. “For what?”

“You would be out there, if not for me.”

Her brow furrowed, and there was only a hint of warning in her voice. “It was my decision, and mine alone, Boromir. Do not forget that.”

_ What decision?  _ he asked himself, but he dared not ask – he would not want to upset her, or see her anger directed at him, which could happen all too easily if he gauged her current state of mind correctly.

When no reply of his came, she returned to her restless occupation, passing him by every few seconds, his eyes following her, until he could feel his own perturbation and concern rise violently inside him. He felt that if he had to hear one more of her paces, all the pent up feelings inside him would burst out, the anger, the fear, the guilt, and he did not want that.

He harshly grabbed her wrist as she passed him the next time, pulling her close to his body, wrapping her arms around her to prevent he from drawing away again. For a moment, he regretted what he had done, as she struggled with more force than he had anticipated to break free, but, just as he felt his grip loosen and he started to apologize, she stilled against his chest, with only her hands moving against his muscles restlessly. Now sure that she would not flee again, he disengaged one of his arms from her back and brought it around, his fingers catching hers, stilling their meek fluttering, and she looked up at him.

Though her body had calmed, the fire in her eyes was burning even hotter for it, her gaze so hard and angry that he was surprised it had not incinerated him, but this only made him hold onto her tighter. As he kept her close, feeling every small adjustment of her body against his, her laboured breath that slowly eased, her fingers started to move again, not in the helpless agitation he had sensed before, but in what he thought to be small, but very determined caresses.

His gaze wandered as he noticed it, and when it returned to her blue eyes that before had stared at him with fierce anger, now it had abated a little, made way for a bit of fear, and something else entirely. She was still irate, and he would not fool himself into thinking that her wrath would not find a way of getting back to him, but there was something else in the way she tilted her head, looking up at him with fire in her eyes that threatened to find its way to him.

She swallowed, a sound that echoed unduly loud through the rustling darkness of the forest around them before her tongue darted out to lick her lips, an unconscious gesture of unease that spurred his actions – he leaned down, bridging the chasm between them, and kissed her. Fear flickered up inside him as his lips touched hers, the deed done and no way to take it back, fear different from the trepidation he felt when he thought of the countless forces of Mordor, but it was vanquished by the way her lips hungrily moved against his as soon as he reached them.

It was not only her lips; her fingers escaped the confinement of his, or he had released them, he did not know, and moved to his neck, pulling him even closer, while his hands wrapped around her hips, digging into her soft flesh, pressing her into his body. The long hours of tension during the day exploded, sought an outlet, and they found it in their moving together or against each other, which, he did not know.

The doubt he had felt as he had kissed her first melted away in the face of her desire, his thought of pulling away and telling her that all of this was a mistake not even making it to a wish as his hands moved up, from her hips over her back to her shoulders, encircling them as he had imagined before. His lips never left her mouth as their tongues battled, struggling for dominance and access, and it was only when he gripped her back firmly that he gained the advantage.

He scarcely thought as she kissed him, moaning harshly against his lips, but part of him, that instinctual area of his conscious, knew that he not only wanted her, but also needed her in this moment, no matter what the cost. He knew there would be cost, that what he did, what they did this night, would come with a price in trust and friendship, but he cared not – it was worth it, or at least he thought so at this juncture, as fear and anxiety tore down his restraints, making way for his desire.

 

He had no claims to being gentle, but neither had she, their movements frantic, fuelled not by affection, but by darker emotions, all melting together into hard need that sought relief and an outlet. It was provided by their bodies crashing, their lips fighting, the way her teeth found his neck and bit it, his fingers digging into her back, harshly grinding her body against his growing erection until even this friction was not enough, and he pressed her against the hard, rugged tree trunk behind them.

His heavy, muscular body nearly crushed her, pressing her back against the raw bark of the tree, but he had not caught her hands, so she let them roam freely, over his shoulders, his arms, his back, his hips, wandering deeper and deeper until she, too, dug into his backside and squeezed it harshly. He withdrew as he felt her fingers, abandoning the base of her neck in the process, and a small, indignant sound escaped her that quelled all the surprise she had distractedly noticed in his dark grey eyes.

She used the small space created between them to slide her hands inside, loosening the belt that held his tunic together, and let it drop carelessly on the floor as she slid her hands under the fabric, exploring his bare skin at his stomach and the hard muscles beneath it.

Unwilling to crush her again, as that would drive away her hands, he settled instead for kissing her, his hands trailing upwards from her hips, passing her ribcage and then finding her breasts. She moaned harshly as she felt his touch, a sound that matched his movements, pressing her flesh firmly and twisting her nipples until it hurt, and more than a little.

She dragged her nails over his lower back in retaliation, hard enough to make it felt, and was rewarded by his hips pressing into her so she could feel his firm erection grinding into her stomach. He wanted her... her absent-minded thought drew more focus as he pushed his hand into her hair and pulled her head up to face him, grey eyes burning with a fierce, hard desire she knew mirrored hers. The intensity of his gaze, searching her features for she knew not what, made her swallow, but it seemed as if he found what he was looking for – he kissed her again, even more fiercely if that was still possible, his teeth biting her lower lip, and his hands slid down to gather the fabric of her dress, pulling it up until he found the bare skin of her thigh.

She moaned softly, but even in the haze of her desire, as her fingers wandered over his chest, she knew enough to stay away from his wounds; they pained him still, she had seen that, though he had tried to hide it, and her fingers avoided the rough, red patches of scar tissue even as she impatiently pulled off his tunic. She had seen him wearing less, but tending to his injuries had been so entirely different to this that she felt like she had never seen him before, never truly realized how well muscled and handsome he was, until she could run her fingers over the hard planes of his chest and abdomen.

If his looks truly mattered, she knew not – even as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her bottom, lifting her from the ground and pressing her against the hard wood, part of her understood that what they did was more about her than about him, that her desire was primarily egoistical, a way to relieve her tension, to distract her from her fears, to vent her anger and frustration about her helplessness. If the way they struggled for control, the way both of them took pleasure rather than gave it was any indication, he acted for the same reasons, but she did not mind – it, this, felt too good and oddly  _ right _ in all its wrongness, and she silenced the voice of her conscious with another rough kiss taken from his lips, which were just as pink and swollen as hers.

His fingers, having wandered up the inside of her thigh, finally found her, entering her with a harsh, determined thrust and she moaned and threw her head back, neither knowing nor caring who could hear her. Her erratically moving hands found his length, already hard and hot, through his trousers and she could feel his rhythm falter inside her as she touched him, then drew back to pull the fabric down, grabbing him for a few, determined pumps that made his body cringe.

He pulled back, and she moaned indignantly, but just as she thought she had steadied herself on her legs, he gently pushed her down, onto the blankets she had carelessly spread as she stood, and for a moment she looked up at him, standing tall and and near naked above her, with eyes just as dark with desire as her own. He followed her down and she rose to meet him, her teeth biting the base of his neck as his calloused hands grabbed her hips, moving them until he could enter her with a firm push that hurt, setting a rhythm that spoke of fierce desire as she wrapped her legs around his back.

The marks of her nails guided him, until  _ she _ had him where she wanted him, got what she needed from him, his hard thrusts meeting her desires while sweat dripped down between them in the vile heat of Mordor that persisted even into the spring night. She moaned harshly as she came, her fingers releasing their pressure on his body, and he shifted above her, finding a new angle, moving to meet her, until he groaned one last time and she could feel him pulse and quiver inside her.

He was panting heavily as he rested on top of her, his eyes never quite finding her gaze while he stilled his breath, his hand clumsily caressing her shoulder as if he found nothing else to do with it instead. She returned the gesture, threading her fingers through his dark, slightly wavy hair, idly separating the strands, until, finally, she felt him move, pushing himself upwards with a groan that had nothing to do with lust and everything with pain.

“Are you all right?” asked she in a tone raw from their exertions, and he nodded softly while she sat up too, her fingers ghosting over the skin of his shoulder until he stiffened under her touch. 

For a moment, she wondered what had made him react so and fought to swallow her pain, then she heard it... the faint, though unmistakeable sound of metal rattling against metal, and whispered words spoken in voices she did not understand, but was sure that were neither Westron nor Elvish. Boromir quietly made to gather his clothes, and she pulled her dress down, then grabbed her bow and arrows and crept over to the hole in the flet, where the rope ladder they had pulled up lay on the polished wood.

Looking down, she knew her initial fear was confirmed – Orcs were swarming the forest floor that was coated with golden leaves, and her blood ran cold as she thought of all the Elves only yards away. She had to warn them – but as soon as she cried out, they would know where she and Boromir were, and she did not fancy the thought of being surrounded by Orcs in the crown of a tree. Again.

She more felt than saw Boromir joining her, sword at his side, and leaned into him to whisper softly, “Orcs.”

He peeked past her, seeing them creeping quietly towards the Elven hideout, and answered, “We have to warn them.”

“And hope the Orcs will not find us,” she answered with a trace of sarcasm and then pulled back from the hole, taking him with her, to avoid enemy arrows. “Yrc! Yrc! Yrc!” she then cried out in the Elven tongue spoken in this part of Middle Earth, and Boromir took up her call, until the trees resounded with warning, and they fell quiet again, hoping to hear movement on the floor beneath them.

The cries of warning and first, muffled sounds of battle made it difficult, and the first Orc stuck his head through the flet without them having any notice beforehand. It was with just as much advance that he was hit by her arrow, losing his grip and toppling down again, as Arnuilas nocked the next, falling back to feel the hard trunk of the tree behind her, with Boromir at her side. Every hint of an afterglow had vanished in the rush of adrenaline and the tension coming with the beginning battle, and now all of her focus was directed outward, at the oncoming Orcs that climbed up onto the platform, only to be felled by Boromir's sword or hit by her arrows.

She tried to push back the dreadful sense of déjà vu, force down the pictures of them tumbling into the great river to escape the Orcs coming at them, to keep her hand steady and her mind clear and sharp, but her success was only partial. Her first arrow missed, even at this close range, and she cursed under her breath, even as the approaching enemies receded and Boromir chased them off the flet, with her following closely behind.

They looked down; the band of Orcs had moved on, and only stragglers were seen scurrying into the woods, in the direction of the Elven refugees, and she cursed again, even as she shot one of them in the back. “We have to follow them.”

There was only a hint of hesitation in his demeanour, much less than she had expected, considering his previous dislike of anything Elvish, then he grabbed the rope ladder and let it down, looking out for enemies that had stayed behind. There were none, the Orcs having gone to hunt easier, less prepared pray, and they climbed down and landed near soundlessly on the golden leaves, now sullied by the blood and the corpses of those they had killed in the skirmish before.

The cries and screams of battle increased as they moved closer, and Boromir, running in front of her, a formidable figure even without his mail and shield, but only in a wrinkled tunic, fended off the attackers that turned from pursuing their Elven victims or climbing up the trees to catch up with them, while she used the greater range of her weapon to help those of the defenders in distress. There were surprisingly many of them, considering that this was not the camp of Elven soldiers, but refugees, and together with the natural advance in defence the trees gave them, they managed to keep the Orcs at bay.

“Watch out!” cried a voice above them just as her arrow had hit a particularly big Orc, one that tried to grab an Elven woman who scurried up a rope to reach the dubious safety of the flet above her, and she quickly turned. One of the attackers was swinging his sword at her, and there was only time to dodge, not to parry. The scimitar grazed her left arm, opening the sleeve of her dress and the skin and flesh beneath it, but she bit her teeth together and ignored the pain, throwing away her useless bow and drawing her sword instead.

Her blade met his with the next blow, and though he drove her back with his attack, her fierce counter took him by surprise, not moving quickly enough to parry her blow as he ought to. She shoved his sword aside, and hers found the black, hard flesh at the base of his neck, slashing it open, blood spraying out of it and misting her face and the white fabric of her dress. The next came at them, and, with no time to pick up her preferred weapon again, she lounged at him, the ferocity of her attack making up for her relative lack of strength and skill. Nevertheless, she was driven back, and a few moments later, she stood, her back against Boromir's, her bow irrevocably out of reach and surrounded by enemies.

She felt his shoulders behind her move as he cursed, his voice so low that she could not make out the words, only the meaning, and then steel clashed on steel again as another Orc stepped forward, having moved from those upon the trees to far more reachable prey. Boromir reacted, and then the forest resounded with the sound of horns, and a band of Elves broke through the dense undergrowth, bows ready and arrows nocked.

The Orcs fled, quickly deciding that they had no chance of winning against this superiority after their helpless pray had not been as easy to kill as they thought, and both Arnuilas and Boromir took cover as the newly arrived Elven troops hailed arrows down on their fleeing opponents, then moved to pursue them into the West.

Her first intuition was to move with them, following the attackers, but Boromir's hand on her shoulder, pulling her back harshly, reminded her of the pain in her left arm, and she stilled her movement. “You must take care of your arm.”

His voice carried the hint of concern, carefully hidden, and she nodded, softly at first, then with more determination as the haze of her instincts receded and she saw the merit of his plan. “Yes...”

She nodded softly, following him through the woods, scattered with the corpses of Orcs, often pierced by arrows, to the innermost parts of the Elven camp the attackers had not reached, where now the healers were tending to the wounds of those less fortunate, all under the watchful eye of the troops that had come to save them.

Boromir stood at her side during all the time it took to cut open the sleeve of her dress and bandage her wound, which, hopefully, was not poisoned, then she got up, letting her gaze wander over the injured Elves around her. “I...” She hesitated for a moment, then decided that she did not care how he would perceive her words and actions when there were patients around her. “I will go and help the healers, but I am sure they will need additional guards to watch for returning Orcs.”

He nodded courtly and left while she scurried to find the one in charge.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Temperance

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Twelve: Temperance**

_ March the  _ _ 22 _ _ nd _ _ , _ _ Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

Staring out into the again darkening woods was nothing he would have chosen to do – frankly, he had seen enough of the disgusting abominations for the rest of his life – but he could not shake the obligation to make himself useful, to give something back to his hosts, and as they were in dire need of warriors now... he shrugged softly.

The breaking of dawn and the day had only brought an increase in the intensity of battle, with fire and smoke billowing over them from the East, the skirmish in the woods only a foreshadow of what was to come, and what was to hit the main body of the army of Lothlórien. But now, the sounds had quieted, and the fumes were invisible now, only perceiveable when one noticed the distinct lack of stars on the night sky. No word had reached them of the outcome of the battle, or at least it had not reached him – his Elven brothers in arms were obviously thankful for his help, but other than that, very quiet, talking in their own tongue among themselves and leaving him standing alone, staring stupidly ahead.

He longed for Arnuilas' presence, only now, when he had been robbed of it, truly understanding what her companionship meant to him, and again, he tried to push back his nagging fears. What he had done... he shook his head. He had allowed his desires to overtake his reason, had used her in a way that, in any other situation, he would never even have considered, and yet, the war and their tension could not be an excuse. He, who was proud of being the master of his actions and his destiny – or rather had been. The lingering feeling of being out of control that had first seized him in the council of Elrond, when he had heard the Ring speak to him the first time, seemed to become his permanent companion, even now that this source of seduction was out of his reach. It had been neatly replaced by another, a lady whose comforts had proven to be just as alluring as any powers of the Ring, and here, sorcery could not be his excuse. She was just a woman, and he had seen many of them more pretty and pleasing to the eye than her, and yet it was her who had taken him in...

He shook his head and banished that thought from his head. What had happened had not been her fault, but his, and it was another stone on the already high pile of his debt towards her... never in his whole life had he felt so terrible, and yet, he wanted to see her again, to win back what had been lost in her favour and friendship.

“ Fool,” he murmured quietly to himself. She had enough reason to stay away, but part of him insisted nevertheless that she was still tending to the wounded Elves, and would return to him as soon as she was finished, smiling and taking him back to the platform in the trees that had been their home for the last days, though it would be remarkably stupid of her to do so. What would stop him from ravishing her again? She had to be aware of that risk.

He shook his head, then tried to focus his attention on the shadows beneath the trees, watching out for any movement that was not the rustling of leaves in the dim moonlight that fought it's way through the dense clouds of smoke hanging over Lórien, with little success. He knew it was wrong, and yet, in those moments when he wanted to forget her most desperately, his thoughts wandered back to the way she felt under him, around him... in short, he wanted her again.

He sighed heavily. Maybe it was wise of her to stay away, but his weak conviction of this was even more undermined by his feelings, increased by his guilt. He still owed her his life, and what he had done had not diminished this debt – should he die without paying it back? He realized that he had best do this from afar... but he did not want to. It might be cowardice on his part, but the prospect of being robbed of his only ally in a country of strange people had not gained any appeal since he thought of it first... and dare he say it after what had happened between them, he regarded her as a friend, and in his current situation, he had not the luxury of having many of them. But that could change, would change, as soon as she found out what he had done... so maybe it was for the best that he had driven her away before he could hurt her with his final treachery.

The shuffling sound of fear behind him made him startle, but as he turned, hand springing to the hilt of his sword, he saw the woman his thoughts had been directed to. He exhaled deeply, hoping that in the twilight, she would not see his mortification too clearly, and smiled at her. “Arnuilas.”

“ Boromir,” she replied quietly and he stepped closer, only now seeing the deep lines of fatigue in her face and her blank, exhausted eyes.

“ Have you slept?” he asked, chastising himself for his clumsiness as soon as the words had left his mouth. Just the thing to say at the first real opportunity for a conversation after sleeping with her.

She did not seem to mind overtly much, answering with only a hint of clippedness in her voice. “Obviously, I have not.”

“ You...” He caught himself at the last possible moment; after all he had done, he was not the one to give advice to her, and he doubted that she would take to it kindly. “Will you rest, then?”

She nodded softly. “I think I will, in a few moments. I just wanted to look after you.”

He felt a stab of pain at her words – she was too good for him, still caring after what he had done... but that was only another reason to stay away from her. “I am fine. I am uninjured, contrary to you, and have slept for a few hours as some of the archers took my post.”

She nodded, a bit awkwardly, then reached out to pat his arm with her uninjured hand. “It is not much, just a scratch, and will heal in no time.” She hesitated for a moment, then continued. “Good night, Boromir, though I fear that wishing you so will be futile with the Orcs still creeping through the woods.”

He nodded, his eyes following her as she left to return to the camp, careful not to let his eyes wander down from the back of her head.

 

_ March the 24 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

The next morning brought word from the battle in the East; the forces of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel had driven the Orcs and their evil masters back over the Anduin, and the Naith was again free of enemies, though it was doubtful how long it would stay that way. The West of Lórien was another matter entirely, for the woods were thick and dense in that area, and what had been the very reason the Galadhrim had moved the population of Caras Galadhon here now turned against them. It was virtually impossible to find every Orc lurking in the undergrowth, and as their hiding place was exposed now, they had to guard the refugees with troops that would be direly needed in the skirmishes at the river.

Boromir did what he could to aid them, with his mind clouded and troubled as it was, but as noon approached, a far more pleasant prospect now the infernal heat had vanished, he was alerted by the calls of the Elves that he had a visitor, again. It was Arnuilas, of course – who else would come to speak to him in these lands – and he smiled as she approached him. She looked better, having shed her bloodstained dress, her cheeks had lost the pale puffiness that came from a lack of sleep, and when she reached him, she took his arm, intertwining hers with his. “Will you agree to come back to the camp with me for a few hours? You surely must have time off from guarding the woods.”

He looked at her with surprise, but, swallowing, he found his words again. “If my commander allows me.”

She chuckled. “Then it is a good thing that I am with you, because I can ask him. I doubt Rúmil understands more than two words of the Common Speech.”

He nodded at her, and they went to find the captain of the archers, to whom Arnuilas talked quickly, then led Boromir away, to the camp that was only yards away, but nearly hidden in the thick bushes. He longed to talk to her, to apologize, but in the company of all those Elves... he would not. A conversation such as theirs required privacy, and he doubted that they would find it in the clearing where the camp was set up, densely filled with Elves driven not only from their homes, but also their hiding places. Before, he had never realized how many of them lived in Lothlórien, only seeing their lofty dwellings in the trees of Caras Galadhon, but now it seemed to him that they were enough to fill Minas Tirith – even without those fighting. He shrugged internally, trying to ignore the rustle and bustle of the camp as they reached it, so much like those he had seen in the South that he very nearly forgot that those were Elves, and very different from him, or even Arnuilas, who seemed friendly enough with them. “Would you care for something warm to eat?” she asked him, and when he nodded, scurried off to one of the camp's fires, surrounded by Elven women, then returning with a hot bowl of stew to him, leading him away from most of the others to a quiet corner behind the thick trunk of one of the mallorn trees. They set on one of the roots, next to each other, the sounds of the camp and the Elven voices not too distant, but unimportant, and she watched him eat.

Twice he tried to offer her some of his portion, twice she refused, but after the second time, she at least stared out into the woods instead of resting her unwavering gaze on him, which relieved him. What he had to say was hard enough without having to resist her pale blue eyes taking in every motion of his limbs or body, every unconscious reaction of his face.

“ Are you well?” he asked finally as he sat his bowl aside, and she startled, turning quickly to face him.

“ Yes, yes, I am. The last days were trying, but by now, I am feeling better.”

He internally cringed, hoping that it would not show on his countenance.  _ The last days had been trying...  _ he _ had been trying. So much for my vain, foolish hopes. _ Finally he brought himself to nod to her, and then the realization hit him that he might not see her again, might not have such an opportunity to talk to her again. “I am sorry.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and her eyebrows rose before he saw understanding dawn on her face and she frowned.

“ For what?” She sounded short and clipped, her tone making his apologies not easier, but he gathered his courage nevertheless. When had he been known to shirk his duty? Never, and he did not want to take that despicable habit up now. 

“ For... what I have done to you.”

Her temper flared as he had spoken the words, and he welcomed her anger – she was right to despise him after what she had done, and she glared at him furiously. “So you are?”

She did not say more than those livid words, and he scrambled for something to say, only to feel his own ire rise, remembering to muffle his voice at the last possible moment. “I am sorry for what I have done to you, yes.”

Her hand grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him closer with a hard tug, her voice only a quiet, angry hiss barely reaching his ear. “And I had nothing to do with what happened between  _ us _ , right? It was all your idea and doing.” 

She paused for a moment, her face so close to his that their noses nearly touched, and then she let go of him again, pushing him away for good measure too. “Rest assured,  _ Lord Boromir _ , had I not liked what we did, I would have hurt you a  _ lot _ more.”

As she stood, he reached out without thinking, grabbing her wrist, but immediately regretted it – her hand forcefully hit his cheek, and he let go of her, humiliation fuelling his own anger. “I am very sorry, madam, for trying to do the gentlemanly thing, resuming responsibility so you do not have to take the blame for our deeds.”

“ Do not belittle me so,” she hissed. “It might have escaped your notice, but I always know what I am doing, and I need no one – and certainly not you – to protect me from the consequences of my actions. If I did, I would have sat at home embroidering my clothes instead of saving your life.”

She had stepped up to him, staring into his eyes with the force of anger, a sight that reminded him too much of their heated night to feel comfortable with, but he could not break her gaze nevertheless. It would have come too close to admitting that he was wrong, and he did not want to hurt is pride in such a way, especially not in front of her. “Can you not see that it was the right thing to do, asking you if you are well, seeing to your comfort? I could have hurt you, or robbed you of...”

She frowned again, more deeply this time. “You cannot rob that which is freely given – or do you doubt that still? You...” On the verge of continuing her hissed tirade, she stopped herself, taking a deep, calming breath and stepping back from him, breaking the angry tension between them. “To answer the questions you have insinuated to, but are too proud to ask, no, you were neither my first, nor have you hurt me – at least not more than I have you, or more than I would mind.”

In near every word the care she took in choosing them, in keeping her voice even, was evident, and it helped him to dampen his roused emotions, especially as he remembered that they were not alone and that their privacy was only an illusion. For all he knew, an Elf could lurk on the other side of the tree and hear every word!

He only nodded, not able to bring himself to thank her for her answers. He  _ had  _ wondered if he had been too rough with her after all, even if he had not thought that he would be the first to have her – her reactions were not those of a woman who had never known a man, but part of him... he shook the stupid idea off, not wanting to feel too possessive for his peace of mind, and surely hers too. 

For a few more seconds, she stared at him, then caught herself abruptly. “Excuse me.”

She gave him no time to reply, but instantly vanished into the direction of the camp, and he could not bring himself to follow her, sighing deeply instead.  _ That truly went well. _

 

_ March the 25 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

She had hope. She had hope from the moment when her heart felt suddenly light and at ease, the years of grief and hardships in the wilds falling off, and she wanted to sing with joy, not the mournful tunes of the North. Those around her felt the same, for she could hear beautiful Elven voices rise to the sky, full of a merriness she had not come close to in years.

When the great eagle came to them from the East, landing on the clearing with trouble, telling them of the Battle of the Dark Gate and how the Ringbearer had cast the Ring of Power into Mount Doom, she was rejoicing, crying and laughing at the same time, still not believing what she had heard with her own ears. Sauron had been defeated, the Ring destroyed, and unbelieveably, miraculously, she still lived! It was more than she had dared hope for for the whole of her adult life, since she had fully grasped the realities of her existence, and that of those around her, those she loved and cared for.

The Elves were smiling and dancing, and yet, she thought that their relief was less than hers. They could at least hope for exile in the West while Sauron was still alive, escaping his terrible powers, but for mere mortals like her... every future but a gruesome death or short years of bland slavery would have been impossible, had he found his Ring again.

She violently shook her head. Now was not the time to dwell on such things, now was the time for joy and celebration, and she joined the Elves with all the cheerfulness that had been caged inside her heart for far too long. She laughed and danced with them, until she was spun around another time and found herself in Boromir's arms, who obviously also partook in the celebrations. Embarrassment assaulted her, and for a moment, she pondered to extricate herself from his grasp, but before she could act on the thought, he had led them off the dance floor, to a quiet corner of the clearing that was now bathed in twilight.

Her rage at him had vanished long ago, left behind only a feeling of slight ill will for his presumption, her wish to get away borne out of her mortification, but now, on this day, she thought she could not be angry with any one, not even at an Orc, much less him. “So we have lived after all,” he said quietly as they found a place away from the bustle of the impromptu festivities, and she smiled, feeling the tinge of sadness that traced it keenly. “Yes... yes, we have. I would not have thought so.”

He looked at her, then nodded softly. “Me neither, and if it had not been for you, I would be lying in the depths of the Anduin now.”

“ Please, do not speak of it now. This should be a day of felicity.”

“ It is, but nevertheless, I cannot hold highly enough what you have done for me.”

She carefully took his hand and squeezed it. “I recognize that you wish for the best, though I suppose the way you go about it is not always the wisest.”

A trace of indignation crossed his face, but he did not snatch his hand away, leaving it in her grasp and stroking her with slight, nearly unnoticeable movements. “That might be.”

They stared out into the darkness together, the air between them much different than the evenings before. Then, the tension between them had been multiplied by the fears and uncertainties of war, but now, as the world was at peace again and Gondor had been saved, their anxiety had lessened also, and this was not the day to quarrel, nor the day to resolve the issues that still hung between them.

What she had not admitted to herself before she had felt his kisses was that she was drawn to him, and that the pull had become stronger and stronger. She had always recognized that he was a handsome man, even by the standards of those descended from the blood of Westernesse, but she had seen many attractive men in her life, so that could not make the difference. In all likelihood, it was their situation, being confined on close space for so many weeks, and now providing the only true company to each other, that made him so alluring, but still... rationalizing did not make her feelings less strong, or less keenly perceived.

If she was completely honest with herself, she would not mind him kissing her again, even though he had insulted her so and proven that he, despite his assurances, did neither think highly of her understanding nor her character. That realization stung... but she also knew or rather guessed, from what she had heard from him, that women in Gondor were not only raised differently from her, but also judged by different standards. Where she came from, what she did and achieved mattered, not how her dress looked like or if she was perceived virtuous and accomplished, and part of her grieved at the thought that he would judge her with such considerations in his mind. Another, the one that had driven her through so many years of constant war and worrying, just clenched her teeth and and steeled her will, daring him to despise her to prove he was just as vain as she feared.

“ You truly are a beautiful woman.” The compliment hit her out of the blue and she turned, staring at him for a few seconds before she caught herself, smiling at his words.

“ Do you dare me to tell you that I think you a handsome man?”

Her words took him just as much by surprise as his had before, and she chuckled at his surprised countenance. “Actually, I do not, but it is pleasant to hear from you nevertheless.”

“ Mind that I have never claimed such a thing.”

Only then realized he what she had said, and she smiled at the hint of disappointment in his mien, though her words were in earnest even when she berated herself for her lack of guard. “You are a very handsome man, Lord Boromir, and a brave one at that.”

He seemed pleased, but did not answer, and silence descended over the clearing again, both of them staring outside into the darkening woods as seemed to become their wont. Nevertheless, Arnuilas had no qualms with it – this conversation had seemed much too serious for her taste, and her heart warned her to guard her feelings. There was no future for a couple like them, she was sure of it. He would marry a pretty, noble girl from Gondor, and possibly a very young one at that, and she would return north, to see the sun set over Annúminas again, and breathe the cold winter air of Eriador, meet her mother and her family. Her conscience knew that war had kept her away from them for far too long, years at a time now, but she had not be able to bring herself to return to them before, when there was use to her on the battlefield. Now, there was time... though if time would be enough to hold her at home, she knew not.

Their hands still rested between them, fingers intertwined, but she did not mind – the small gesture brought her a measure of comfort, now that the war was over not so desperately sought to find relief, but nevertheless welcomed, and she did not intend to change that. If her heart truly became engaged, she knew that she would muster again after it had broken – she had once, and she would again, for she was strong, and she could bear the ache, just like so many years previously when her betrothed had died. There was nothing to fear, now that Sauron had been vanquished, and she told her doubts firmly to hold their tongue.

“ I am sorry,” he said finally, his fingers stilling their movements and she tilted her head to face him, painfully avoiding the memories of the last time he had apologized to her, and how disastrously it had ended. “You were right, and I, especially I, having seen how remarkable a woman you are, should not have belittled you in the way I did.”

Knowing what a proud man he was, she knew it must have cost him dearly to acknowledge this, and she squeezed his fingers firmly. “I had already forgiven you, but it is good to hear this nevertheless.”

He raised her hand and softly kissed her knuckles, then lowered both of theirs together, never breaking their grip, and she leaned into his shoulder, just as they had done in the moments of her greatest distress. It did not fail to calm her even at this time, when there was not much to do and the feelings inside her were more a calm breeze coming from the sea than a tempestuous winter storm, and she smiled softly. But to forgive was not the same as to forget... and she would remember what he had said to her, no matter how much regretted it now, for his words had taught her more about him than she had ever wanted to know.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: The Lady of the Galadhrim

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Thirteen: The Lady of the Galadhrim**

_ April the 1 _ _ st _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age.  _

After six days of joy and celebrations, the beginning of April brought them back to Caras Galadhon, the city of the Galadhrim, now scorched and its beauty sullied by the marks of war evident on it and the surrounding coutryside. Trees had fallen under the vicious attacks of the Orcs, fires had cut swathes into the golden forest, now glimmering with the first green leaves of spring, and slashed open wounds that would not heal in Boromir's lifetime, or that of his children and grandchildren, should he be fortunate enough to have such.

He approached the city with apprehension, as the month he had spent there previously had been filled with dark thoughts of power and the ring and his grief over the loss of Gandalf, their leader, in Moria, but the joy of the folk returning to their homes and being reunited with their fighting fathers, husbands and sons, helped to assuage much of his lingering fears. He and Arnuilas were given a small quarter at the outskirts of the city, overlooking the green walls in a place where they were nearly torn down and Orcs had obviously entered, but the sight did not distress him. Every time it started to, he looked out over the slowly running flood of the Anduin and could see the smoldering ruin of Dol Guldur in the woods, evident, powerful proof that in the end, they had won, and Sauron had died, if what had happened to him could be called such.

His happiness was only dampened by not having any news of his home Gondor, besides that which the eagle had reported: that the King of Gondor had won the battle. If this King, presumably Aragorn, had any city or lands to rule left, he did not know, just as the fates of his father and brother were still unknown to him. He doubted that he would hear of them before he returned to Gondor himself, and it still stood written in the stars when or even if that would happen. He had not forgotten his shame, or that he did not know if Aragorn would even be willing to accept him into his kingdom after the weakness he had shown, much less give him soldiers to command as he knew he would desire again. Nevertheless, he knew he had to go, for he could not live on without knowing of those of his kin closest to him, if they had lived or died in the battle raging around Minas Tirith. If he would be exiled after, he cared not, if he only was assured that they were well.

At least ease had returned between him and Arnuilas, or at least something that closely resembled it; he was still guarded around her, and knew he had to, because he could still feel the temptation she presented when sitting in front of him, or just smiling. He had not even held her hand since the day of Sauron's defeat, had not dared to, but she did not seem to mind, neither that nor the things he had said to her that, if he regarded them from her point of view, frankly had been insulting.

They had been borne from his own insecurities, from his fear that he had alienated her and his desperate wish to put his mistake to rights – but if it had been a mistake, it had been hers as well, he saw that now, and she was obviously determined not to see it as such, even alluring to it in her comments as if it had been the most normal thing in the world. He only hoped that she would not come to regret it later, but if he had any say in it, that is, if she allowed him to have it, he would do everything in his power to see that she would not. She deserved better than that, and better than a man whose injuries still pained him, especially the limp he had developed after the arrow had hit him in the thigh. Especially today, he felt it keenly, after their long trek back to the city, and he was both glad that their flet was not in the most vertiginous heights of the city and that he could rest his leg now that he had arrived.

Arnuilas had watched him with shrouded eyes for the whole time they walked, and now as he let himself down with a heavy sigh, she moved to join him on the blankets on the floor. “I wished there is something I could do for you, but alas...”

He shook his head. “Do not trouble yourself; I have endured worse.”

“ That might be, but I fear that the prospect of never getting rid of the pain again begins to daunt you... I hope that the Elves might be able to do something, but they are still concerned with their own, who are more injured than you are, and it might be too late then.”

“ I am lucky to have escaped with my life, and all of my limbs, and even if this injury will haunt me for the rest of it, I will not complain.”

She looked at him, then chuckled quietly. “I must admit, your injury did not seem to impede you overtly much.”

He caught her allusion and allowed himself a grin, though it was riddled with mortification. It was true, it had not – the pain had been dampened by the passion of the moment, but he had paid for his exertion and the following battle dearly on the day after. “It has not, but believe me, it makes itself noticed frequently.”

She nodded and was just on the verge of answering him when two Elves ascended the last steps to their platform and approached them. Both Arnuilas and Boromir stood, he a bit more clumsily than she, then greeted their visitors – Lady Galadriel and an Elf unknown to him, who was quickly introduced as Narethel, a healer of the Galadhrim sent to take a look at his wounds. His first thought was that the great lady, as she stood before them, looked old and weary, much more so than when he had first seen her holding court in all her glory with her spouse. There had always been the depth of countless years in her eyes, but now she exuded not only an air of sadness, but had also lost the air of power that surrounded her to some degree.

“ My lady,” he said, feeling, just like the first time when he had met her, naked and exposed in her presence, the notion now increased by his thoughts about the woman besides him. Before, he had fooled himself that his improper desires were just a matter between him and her, but now, standing in front of one so wise and powerful, he felt ashamed for them. It was nothing he should ever have entertained, and certainly not now, when he could not even claim a pressing need for the comforts of a woman's arms to distract himself from the realities of war – and even if that was so, he should have chosen another, not her, whom he owed so much, and who was, despite her wielding her bow and fighting, a lady of Númnorean descent. 

“ Please accept my apologies for only for not coming to see you earlier, as would have befitted you as my guests at Caras Galadhon, but also for the absence of Lord Celeborn. He is still at Dol Guldur, overseeing the slighting of it's defences, so he cannot greet you in person.”

After a moment of silence, during which he cursed himself for his tongue-tiedness, Arnuilas smiled. “Think nothing of it. It is us who owe you our gratitude, for it was your power that has defended us from the forces of the Dark Lord, and your foresight that saved us from the clutches of the Orcs chasing us.”

She did not answer, regarding Arnuilas earnestly before her gaze moved towards his, but not revealing what she saw in either of them, before she spoke to the woman still standing at his side. “Would you mind walking with me a bit while Narethel tends to your friend's injuries?”

“ It would be an honour, my lady.”

 

They took the steps down from the flet to the streets, which still bore the stains of war, walking on in silence, until Galadriel spoke as soon as they were surely out of earshot of Boromir. “It was a good deed to safe his life, though I must admit I did not expect it when Aragorn sent you out to scout the South for him.”

Arnuilas nodded quietly. “I know.”

“ You do?” asked Galadriel, turning to face her. “You have not come to regret it after all that Haldir told you?”

She shrugged softly. “I must admit, it troubled me for some time – but since then, the good I have seen of him has far outweighed any of my concerns. He is an honourable man, maybe proud, but still with a kind heart.”

“ But a man ill prepared to deal with the works of witchcraft he was faced with.”

“ Who is not ill prepared for that? I have helped guard the Shire for so long, do you think I have not felt it call out to me, only because I knew what power it held, and not even being near it? I cannot fault him for wishing to save those he loved.”

Galadriel smiled. “You defend him quiet fiercely for one not associated with him.”

“ You call those weeks we have spent solely in each other's company nothing? They sure do not feel like it, and I am proud to call him friend now.”

“ Sadly, he has few of those in these times, though I hope that will change when he returns south. His people will be overjoyed hearing of his survival.”

“ That may be, but he seems reluctant to go.”

“ I have seen that, but I think he will accompany us nevertheless when we travel to Gondor.”

“ What is your meaning, my lady?”

“ That the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim will see the wedding of King Elessar the First and Arwen Undómiel of Imladris. The day he has hoped for is not far now.”

Arnuilas smiled. “Not he, but all of us. We have gone without a queen to guide us for far too long.”

“ I think Boromir will be prevailed to travel with us then, and you with him. Many of the Rangers have travelled south at the request of their Chieftain, and you must want to join them.”

She nodded softly. “I do.”

Galadriel did not answer, but instead raised her hand, exposing the ring she now wore openly on her finger. “So it is as I have suspected,” Arnuilas whispered, and the lady nodded.

“ It is. I am the keeper of Nenya, and have been for a long time now – but this high office is now rendered obsolete with the destruction of the One Ring. It is has no power any more over us, but neither do I have any left.”

“ I have noticed the moon in the night sky, and the time that is passing like the slowly flowing Anduin now, not like a bright mountain steam.”

“ Indeed – I have no power left to hold it back, and what little I still command I will use to heal this land, before all too soon I will part with it forever to sail west.”

Silence and sadness descended upon them as they walked through the golden streets of Caras Galadhon, and when Narethel approached them, Arnuilas thought the interruption welcome. “It seems it is time to return to him,” observed Galadriel quietly, but as Arnuilas made to follow her, she shook her head.

“ Do not; linger a bit longer instead. I fear the news I have to bear are such that he will want to hear of them alone.”

She nodded, though her heart grew heavy at Galadriel's words, and turned, walking through the once lush groves of Caras Galadhon, wondering when it would be time for her to return.

 

Boromir knew now what the Elven healer had done to him, but it had certainly worked miracles – he could already feel that moving was easier for him, and the still lingering pain that had never left him since he received those wounds had already lessened a bit. His relief though was dampened by Arnuilas' perpetuated absence, and he feared that she was still speaking to Galadriel, that she would tell her of his treachery, and that he would never see her again, a familiar anxiety by now. When the great lady returned to him alone, that smile that spoke of pity in her face, his apprehension became certitude, and pain rose inside him until she spoke, reading his mind with that precision he had feared before but now found oddly comforting. “Your friend as taken a turn in the gardens at my request and will return shortly. I wanted to speak to you alone.”

He swallowed, then nodded mutely, unsure what to say and unwilling to beg her for news of his family and his country, news he was convinced she would be able to provide – he still had pride, though it seemed it was eroded with every moment he spent in Arnuilas' company.

“ I have seen your family, Boromir.”

Again, she had read him with humiliating ease. “And?”

“ Your father has died during the battle of Minas Tirith.”

He moved to stand in shock, walking a few paces as quickly and agitatedly as his still prominent limp would allow. “He died? Why? Has the city been taken and the White Tower been stormed that he was in the heat of combat?”

The grief in her beautiful face, apparent as soon as her silence made him turn and study her features again, made him suspect it was much worse. “Please, do not spare me.”

She nodded, though hesitantly. “Your father, it seems, has used the old Palantír of Minas Ithil during his long reign to gain advantage, and often this has worked in his favour. He has not known, however, that the Dark Lord still controlled it, made him see only what suited his vile purposes, slowly infusing your father's mind with fear, and, ultimately, despair, at the conceived superiority of the enemy. With you apparently dead, for the boat with your gear and clothes was found at the river, your brother lying in the Houses of Healing, near mortally wounded, and the city under siege, he decided that there was no chance for victory, and he had a pyre made in the Halls of the Dead, to burn himself and his younger son.”

“ A pyre!” he exclaimed, his mind focusing on that small detail that seemed so out of place to drone out the fear he felt for Faramir.

“ He has lost his senses, I fear, and were it not for the bravery of Peregrin Took and Beregond of the Guard, not only he, but your brother also would be dead. They saved him from the fire, but not your father, who threw himself into the flames.”

He only noticed that he was crying as he felt the tears dripping from his face on his tunic and hands, and he wiped them away with force, not wanting to present such an undignified picture to such a great lady. “He is dead then. What of my brother?”

“ Faramir lives, and will be well soon enough, preparing Minas Tirith for the return of his king.”

In all his pain, this was the anchor he could cling to, the one thing that held the agony at bay – his brother, his beloved little brother, lived, and he would see him again, though it was doubtful that their reunion would last long. “So Aragorn has kept his promise.”

“ He has, coming to aid Minas Tirith it its hour of greatest need. Do not fear, your people have been in good hands.”

“ At least that solace I have.”

She looked at him intently, and he could feel that there still were things that needed to be spoken of, such as how he had forgone his oaths and betrayed the Fellowship of the Ring. “You have, and much more. You have not been alone.”

“ No, I have not,” he answered hesitantly, fearing that he would be put on trial for his conduct. “It is much you have seen, Lady Galadriel.”

She sighed softly, a sound as delicate as her whole person. “I have, yes. The Dark Lord as chosen to show me many things as I struggled with him in my mind, keeping the forces of Dol Guldur at bay. It was a daunting task... one I nearly lost, as the attack on your camp has proven. It was too much your father demanded of himself.”

“ That may be.”

She looked at him intently. “I fear it was also too much he demanded of you, sending you out to find Rivendell and the Ring – you are strong in battle, Boromir, but ill prepared to resist temptation of that kind, nay, even understand it.”

Her words stung, but now that he had seen the dire consequences of his actions, after he had given up all that he held dear, he was inclined to agree with her. “I fear it was.”

“ And yet good has come of his decision. Without you, Frodo would never have found the strength to go to Mordor alone, and I can only guess what consequences that would have had.”

“ He was all alone there?” he exclaimed in shock, and she shook her head, smiling.

“ Not alone. There was one companion he could not shake off, even though he tried. Samwise Gamgee went with him.”

“ And those two entered that cursed land alone and destroyed the Ring! I must admit, I am surprised.”

“ In that, you are no less than the greatest and wisest of us. Even I have not seen their remarkable strength and bravery until they were needed, but I fear Frodo has paid too high a price for it, though there is nothing you can do for him.”

Boromir nodded; again, she had guessed what he was about to say. “There is a question I want to ask you though,” she continued, and he looked up at her with surprise.

“ A question.”

“ Yes, and one of quite some import, one I fear you will have to answer immediately.”

Apprehension rose inside him, but he quickly quelled it, facing her – he felt ill equipped to make important decisions, as they seemed to be wrong so often, but there was little choice for him. “Please, go ahead.”

“ Do you want to return to Gondor?”

He stared at her. “Of course I want to!” Where was the difficulty, where the reason why she seemed so earnest, so apprehensive?

“ I must make myself more understandable, I fear. The armies of Rohan and Gondor are currently camping in Ithilien, but will return to Minas Tirith shortly, where Aragorn will be crowned king, and your brother steward of his lands. By law, you would be the heir to that high office – the question is, do you want it?”

He opened his mouth, to answer that of course he did, that it was his birthright he had been brought up to from his earliest days, but he caught himself a few moments before that, and snapped his mouth shut. Did he  _ truly _ want it? The war was over, Gondor was at peace now – and, after all was said and done, he was a warrior, it was what defined him, and what he thought he could do best. His talents would be of no use sitting at the side of the ancient throne of the White City, whispering advice in Aragorn's ear that the man had probably already come up with on himself, and by far faster than he ever could. 

Faramir, his little brother, was another matter entirely. He had always been bookish, and, frankly, a more temperate man than he, a wiser man – one still suited for the battlefield, still his equal as a commander, but with talents that reached so much farther than wielding a sword and commanding his troops. He would be able to assist Aragorn not only in leading his armies, but also in rebuilding a kingdom that would last... something he not only lacked the abilities, but also the patience for. He would grow tired of sitting at home, without a battle to ride to, because that would be the duty of lesser man than the Steward himself.

He swallowed harshly. All his thoughts and reasoning did not make it easier for him to give up what he had, as long as he could remember, expect to be his one day, to be his due even – he was sure that some would regard his giving up his position to his brother as weakness, would mock him, and admitting that he was not a fit for it as Faramir hurt his pride. But he had always lived with the conviction that he would do anything, give up anything, to be of use to Gondor – and if this was the final sacrifice to be made, be it so.

“ I do not.”

She smiled, and was there a hint of pride glittering in her old Elven eyes? He knew not. “Then I will not send word of your survival for a while, possibly until you will travel to Minas Tirith yourself.”

“ Will they even let me pass the borders of the land?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Why not? You are a man of rare strength and valour, a hero of Gondor, and a friend of the king.”

_ A friend of the king does not resent him for being the heir to the throne he has craved for so long _ , he thought quietly, but did not say the words, suspecting with good reason that he did not have to, that she knew anyway. “And what about my treachery?”

She reached out to touch his hand, then smiled. “I am sure that you have already been forgiven... even by Frodo. If you have not, then nobody would demand that one of the entourage of Lord Celeborn of Lórien will stay back at the borders of Gondor.”

“ He will travel south?” He eyed her with surprise.

“ Yes, we will, and I now invite you and your companion to join us. It will be some time until we depart though, about a month and a half now – will you be amenable to that, or is your desire to see your home too great for such a wait?”

“ It is not... I will travel with you.”  _ By then, maybe I can face the prospect of having Aragorn as king and Faramir as steward with some equanimity.  _

“ Then it is settled. I will leave you now, but with one last word of advice, though last time, you were reluctant to take my council. You have once said that it would be foolish to throw away what fate has given you; then, this might not have been wise, but now, I think it is.”

He left him with those words with a slight bow, and he remained, settling back onto his blankets and staring out over the city were thousands of lights now glittered in the twilight of the leaves, longing to weep, but not daring. His father had been a great and noble man, and tough he had sometimes been cold, too cold for two young boys that had just lost their mother, he had loved him dearly, and with all his heart. That he had found his end now – and in such a way, not in the glory of battle – weighed heavily on him... he had always hoped to return from his quest to find Minas Tirith unchanged, just as he had left it, but his wish would not come true now, and ins his heart, he had always known that it was a foolish thought. Nothing remained as it was forever, and especially not in times as dark as theirs were, or at least had been until a few days ago, when the evil lord had left the planes of Middle Earth forever.

“ Boromir.”

Arnuilas stood at the landing of their staircase, a frown on her forehead, and he forced himself to smile, though he suspected that he failed miserably. “Have you returned?”

“ I have.”

Slowly, she approached, then sat next to him, her hand reaching out to find his for the first time since that fateful day when they had found hope again, as if she felt how much he needed the comfort of her presence now. “She has brought you dire news, has she not?”

“ She has. My father is dead, and my brother wounded.”

“ I am sorry.” She pressed his fingers between hers, and then, deciding that it was not enough, pulled him into her arms so his head rested on her much smaller shoulder. Tears threatened to escape, but he ruthlessly swallowed them, taking deep, hard gulps of air, breathing in her scent that by now was so familiar, hoping it would calm him. It was not that, but the steady beating of her heart and her fingers stroking through his dark hair that finally laid the turmoil he felt to at least a temporary rest, the grief and pain not forgotten, but having spent themselves for the moment, though he was sure they would return and would accompany him for quite some time in the future. 

“ He was a good man,” she murmured softly in his ear and he nodded, though he was sure that her words were mere platitudes, that she had only heard of Denethor in passing. “You will carry on what he has begun.”

“ My brother will,” he answered softly, and she looked up with surprise. 

“ Your brother.”

“ Yes.” He hesitated for a moment, deciding that this was not the time to speak to her of his decision. “I am not in Gondor, obviously, and will not be for quite some time... it is he who has do pick up his work.”

His words seemed plausible to her and she nodded, smiling weakly as she gently pushed him back from her shoulder to face him. “He will.”

She was beautiful as he looked at her, and more so as she provided the safe haven he so desperately needed at this time, her fingers softly caressing his cheek despite the sadness in her eyes, sadness she felt on his account and his alone. His hand moved up from her shoulder, over her neck into her dark hair, worn open since they resided in Lórien, his gaze searching for any sign of hesitancy in her eyes, but finding their expression to be only gentle, so different from the fierce anger, mingled with desperation and fear, he had seen in them the first time he had kissed her.

His lips found hers, tenderly caressing them while searching for the oblivion he so much craved, and she responded in kind, drawing nearer to him, her fingers wandering over the front of his tunic, then pulling his head down to her. It was not a frantic jerk, but more an offer, one he could have refused if he so desired, but he had no inclination to, wanting to feel her at this moment, close to him, near him, relishing in the feeling that at least she was still with him...

Her first moan was a soft, nearly meowling sound that escaped their joined lips as his hands finally found their way down to her hips, and it made him think, made him reconsider, made him draw back, gently ending their kiss. “We cannot...”, he murmured softly, answering the unspoken question in her eyes, and he thought he saw a flash of anger in them that disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“ Are you hesitating to accommodate your wishes, or because of concern for mine?”

“ I am thinking of you,” he admitted, but the reproach he expected as he spoke the words never came, she only smiled.

“ Then believe me, just this one time, that I am full mistress of my senses, and that I want this just as much as you do.”

It was true... he could feel his ardour rise, and surely, she must have sensed it too, pressed as her body was into his... and after all he had said and heard on this painful day, he had no strength to resist, when she had so clearly said that she desired him. He did not answer, but kissed her again, his mouth soon finding its trail down her jaw, tasting the pale, soft flesh in its wake before she drew away again. He felt bereft as soon as her hands left her soft curves, but she returned to him, moving to strip him off his tunic and soothing the pain he felt as he raised his arm by kissing his neck from behind while her fingers found their positions at his shoulders, digging into the hard, tense muscles there as she had done what felt such an eternity ago. Back then, he had steadfastly denied that he felt anything akin to desire at her touch, claiming even in the privacy of his own mind that it was only relief of his pain, but now, he knew better, and was reminded of this truth with every soft movement of her hands, every time her hot mouth moved to nibble on his skin. How had he ever been capable of not wanting her? He knew not.

Her ministrations took a slow path down his back while her lips always returned to his neck and his shoulders, only heightening his ardour for her, until he could not bear it any longer; he had to feel her, had to touch her, and so he turned, reaching out for her again. She received him with the same desire he felt, their kisses gaining intensity as they lay down on their blankets and she pulled him closer to her, her hands now wandering down his back again with an entirely different destination in mind.   
He moaned silently into her mouth as her fingers dug into his flesh, his body tensing as he instinctively moved forward, his erection grinding into her body, and she moved with him, increasing his pleasure as he stroked her sides, then moving on to her breasts. Her hard nipples peeked through the soft, white fabric of her dress and he drew his mouth from hers, instead pulling her neckline lower and sucking them, eliciting a similar response from her and delighting in it, wondering at the same time how she would look naked. His hands moved up, stroking her cheek in passing, a touch she moved into like a purring cat, and then touched the lace fastenings on her back, finding the bow that held them together and opening it, then pulling the ribbons loose so she could slide out of her dress.

Somewhat to his surprise, she moved to accommodate his silent request, sitting and sliding out of her sleeves so her dress could fall to her hips, exposing her pale breasts to him without the shyness he had half expected. He let his hand slide down the length of her now bared skin, enjoying both sight and feel of her body that was surprisingly soft for a woman so well trained, then moved in to kiss her again, sweeping away that small smile that had formed on her lips as she watched him.

Thus distracted, he was surprised when she stroked his length with soft, teasing moves, then left him alone to slide down his trousers, divesting herself of her dress and undergarments in the process and gliding on top of him, guiding him inside her. He bit back a moan as he felt her, one that came from not being prepared for her initiative, catching himself, mindful of the ears of those around him.

Her eyes had fluttered closed at first when he had entered her, but now she looked at him again, her gaze so clear that not even he could fool himself that this was not what she wanted; no haze of desire could be her reason, so slow and deliberate were her movements, gauging his reactions as, he realized, he should have done as he first took her. His remorse was short-lived; her softly rocking hips drove all of it away in a matter of a few seconds, and now it was him squeezing his eyes shut as he repressed his groans of pleasure as she rose and then moved to join him again.

His hands at her hips guided her, and she quickly picked up what he wanted and liked, moving on top of him, her pace increasing, but still near excruciatingly slow, or so it felt to him, her blue eyes trained on him... she was in control, there was no doubt of it, and yet, part of him enjoyed it... and not only because this way, he was minimizing the strain on his injuries and therefore, the pain. But he knew there was something he would relish even more, and so he tightened his grip on her hips, thrusting into her quickly and more intently then before. She moaned and tilted her head back, her body moving faster into his... her lids half lowered and shadowed with desire, a glorious sight combined with her cheeks flashed pink, and he grit his teeth not to moan as he felt his composure shatter. His fingers dug into her hips harder as if of their own volition as his eyes shut closed and he pulled her nearer, pulsing into her as his ardour overtook him and feeling her clench around him, not more than sighing softly as she found her own release.

He gathered her into his arms as she lay down to rest her head on his chest, spent with their exhaustion, and he softly stroked her back, letting his fingers wander over her smooth skin and simply enjoying the feel of it without any further thoughts. What had he done to deserve such a woman? Nothing... but he would not tell her that, at least not so soon...

She moved again after a few minutes, sliding off him, but it was not to pull away, but only to rest her head on his shoulder and pulling a blanket over their exposed bodies; the night air was still fresh, though spring had now finally arrived in earnest. He continued his caresses in the cover of it, stroking her back, her hair, her shoulders and, finally, kissing her temple, hoping to convey his thanks for what she had done for him without words and that her leaning into his touch was her way of telling him he had been understood.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Caras Galadhon

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Fourteen: Caras Galadhon**

_ April the 6 _ _ th, _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age.  _

 

She felt like she had finally found where she belonged when she rested her head on his shoulder, and it was the place she claimed for herself now every evening as they rested, more often than not telling him that she was cold. She supposed he knew that she was just looking for an excuse, but welcomed her nevertheless, his arms around her shoulders and his scent in her nose becoming more and more familiar with each passing day, while they now truly rested.

Before, fear about the outcome of the war had always been near, and now being relieved of it still felt unreal to her, giving her something she had lacked almost all her life, to an extent that she not even knew how it felt: choice. True choice. In all those years, in some way or another, her actions and decisions had been shaped by the threat from the Orcs, the impending war, the death of her betrothed... they all had driven her to become the woman she was, not only a healer, but also a warrior and scout. Now however was time not only to react, but to find out if that was what she truly wanted, if she desired that life still or if she wanted to settle down, to find a quiet place in the North for her, take up the more homely duties she had before left to others... and to find out what place the man so constantly at her side now should take in that future of hers.

She knew not still if what she felt for him was borne from the long days spent in his presence, if her desire had been lit entirely by accident and would vanish as soon as they returned to busier places, with others more to their tastes to spend their time with, or if it would remain... but there was only one way to find out, and until then, she would enjoy his company as long as it lasted, just as he evidently did with hers.

She did not believe that she would be anything out of the ordinary when she returned to Gondor, because her skills were such that they would be of only little use in a sitting room in that great city, being visited by all the ladies of society.

“ You look ponderous.”

She smiled up to him as he returned from his daily walk that would soon be intermingled with small jogs, to regain both his condition and teach him to use his leg again without trying to keep the strain from it, and he had been given similar exercises for his shoulders and abdomen. At some times, she envied him for the activity and purpose he had, because there was nothing to do for herself, and as enjoyable as it was to do nothing for a week of celebration or even to, it had begun to grind on her nerves again now. She had never in her whole life been truly without occupation, taking up little tasks from a very young age, until the day when they had returned to Lórien, safe the skirmish with the Orcs and the following work of course. The prospect of sitting idly in Caras Galadhon seemed daunting already, even including the distracting pleasure Boromir's company could give, as he had proven once since the day Galadriel visited them, though it had been her who approached him. He still seemed reluctant, still reserved, but because of what, she could not understand – did he still believe he had hurt her, even though he had been especially gentle the last two times? She softly shook her head.

“ Arnuilas?”

Concern glittered in his grey eyes, concern she must have only fuelled with her distraction, and he reached out to him, pulled him down to sit next to her on the bed the Elves had now been able to provide for them, possibly found in the ruins of some of the city's buildings. “I am sorry.”

“ Would you like to speak to me about it?”

She tilted her head, looking at him, his breathing evened out now after the exhaustion of the morning – walking was still difficult and painful for him, though she could see his progess every day, progress that saddened her because there were so many others out there whom she could not give the same treatment. “I suppose I have been without a task for too long, and it makes me think too much.”

“ Of what, if I may ask?”

“ What I am to do, now that I am free to choose.”

He looked at her with surprise. “Have you not selected the way you live your life yourself? I imagine that not all the women of the Rangers are like you.”

She shook her head. “They are not, in that you are right, but there was one thing I never could decide – what purpose my life would serve. From my birth, it was decided that I would defy the evil forces, first of the North and now Sauron's, because my mere existence was a threat to his power. Do you truly think he would have rested before all Dúnedain of the North were dead, with his fear that the heir of Elendil would reappear?”

He looked at her, then shook his head. “I do not.” Pausing, he finally asked, “Are you related to him?”

“ Aragorn, you mean?” she answered in surprise, and he nodded. “With us being so few, I suppose that all of Númenorean blood still living in the North are related to him in some way or another. In my case, my great-grandfather was also his, so it is but a distant connection – one I think I would not be aware of, had I not as a small child often been told that my ancestor on my mother's side of the family had been Elendil's heir and chieftain of the Rangers of the North.”

She realized her vanity as soon as the words were out of her mouth, the way she boasted her famous relation, that small part of noble blood she had, hoping that it would raise her in his esteem all the while knowing that in all likelihood, it would not work.

“ Had you been born in Gondor, you would be the daughter of a noble family.”

She laughed, a sound that contained more than a hint of self-reproach and bitterness. “And yet I am just a woman in a borrowed dress, one that is far more pretty than all those that are her own.”

“ I had not thought you one to fancy them.”

She did not answer, until his fingers caught her chin and tilted it up to face him. “I have told you so already, and I will tell you so again: When I first opened my eyes to see you, you were the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld.”

“ That does not count,” she replied, trying to sound try, deflecting the earnestness in her voice. “You would have thought that even had I been bearded.” She reached up, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Nevertheless it is a nice thing to say.”

He did not pull her closer again as she withdrew, instead eyeing her curiously, worried even, and the only thing she could do was smile at him as reassuringly as possible. “Do not worry, I will be fine. I just wish we could go to Gondor tomorrow, instead of waiting for Lord Celeborn.”

“ And you are right to think so. Ithilien is beautiful in spring, and it will be even more so without Mordor's shadow.” He spoke the right words, but they lacked the tender smile she had come to expect every time he told her about his home, memories that never failed to cheer him up, even during their time in the cellar at Rauros, when he had still been so direly injured. 

“ Do you not want to go?” she asked quietly and he shook his head.

“ Not now. I have heard from Lady Galadriel that my land is in good hands, those of your kinsman and my brother, and I am in no hurry to return.”

She tilted her head in question – was he not the elder son? Was he not heir to the Steward of Gondor, who had died, instead of his brother? No matter what the answer, he was obviously very reluctant to speak about it, and she did not want to push him as she feared that might drive him away again.

“ I confess I am, if just a little – many of my folk have travelled to Gondor, and I want to join my kin there. It has been far too long since so many Rangers have gathered at one place.”

He frowned, the thought of the Rangers – and by extension, of Aragorn, who was now King Elessar – still not comfortable to him, but he did not seem as angry as he had been before, and she did not regret bringing it up.

Silence stretched between them, until he collected himself and reached out to touch her fingers gently. “You have said before that you are struggling to come to a decision. Is there anything I can do to help?”

She softly shook her head. “Please, you do not have to.”

“ But I do not like to see you sitting so stupidly around.”

She shrugged. “I guess it is just well that I am sitting stupidly around – after all, I am the one to live with the consequences of my actions.”

“ Consequences? That sounds dire indeed.”

“ Not dire, only of great importance. I am pondering what to do now that this war has ended.”

“ I thought you were going to Gondor, and then return north?”

“ I am, but I do not know what to do then, once I have returned to the lands of my ancestors.”

“ And you are worrying about this now?” He laughed, and she felt it keenly, though she knew that being moron and thoughtful about something that was so far away really bordered on the ridiculous, especially as only a few weeks before, she had not known if she would live the year, or even the day.

“ I fear it is more something for me to do, than out of real anxiety for the future, because you are right – there is still much time left until I truly have to decide.”

He nodded at her. “There is much time, yes... and maybe...” He hesitated, and sounded so unlike himself when he did, that it caught her attention. “Maybe something will happen that can help you decide.”

She frowned, wondering what he meant with those cryptic words, strange for usually so straightforward a man, and he grabbed her hand – to distract her from the colour seeping into his cheeks? “Come, let us walk a bit – they have reconstructed the bridge at the gates, and we could go see it.”

 

_ May the 3 _ _ nd _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age.  _

 

The crisp spring air gave way to breezes warmer than those in the month previously, and the sun, even he eager to celebrate Sauron's defeat, shone with more force than ever. The beauty and the quietude of the place encompassed all, and finally, after long days and especially nights of unrest, even Arnuilas came to trust the peace, to enjoy the gentle breeze that came from the river while sitting in the sun on their flett, only moving to follow the golden patches on the wooden floor when they wandered during the course of the day. It was... calm, and some of that feeling found its way into her heart, just as in earlier days, when Galadriel's magic had been in full place and no grief or sorrow could touch those walking in the Naith.

It was a holiday, one that she had for many years lacked and now direly needed, but only found when the war was over – but as much as she now enjoyed it after putting her concerns and sorrows away, part of her knew that she could not sit calmly forever, and that part was now gaining strength with every day, beginning to return her to the restlessness she thought she had left behind. Thus every distraction was welcome to her when, as evening approached, two Elves came to visit with them in what, for the last month, had been their home. After standing to greet them, together with Boromir, who, by now, had regained much of his strength, with his scars paling and not hurting as much as they used to, they invited them to sit, but the leader, a man of great height, even exceeding Boromir, shook his head.

“ Please excuse us, but we are to see many of ours in the city tonight, so they can begin to prepare for leaving.”

“ Leaving?” Boromir asked incredulously, and the Elf smiled.

“ Yes. Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen have set out from Rivendell, and we expect them to reach Lórien in about three weeks. After a few day's rest, we will continue on to Gondor, and, as I have come to understand, you are to accompany the Lord and the Lady during their travels.”

“ That was planned, yes.” The happier countenance Boromir had adopted during the last weeks had vanished, and she frowned softly. Was he not eager to return to his homeland, and see again the brother he loved so? Was it fear that held him back, or shame, because of what he had done? 

“ Then we ask you to bid your farewells to Lórien and be ready to leave at the twenty-fifth.”

“ We will be.” The gravity of his words struck her, and she longed to comfort him, but his denying countenance deterred her even though they had grown close in the months since they had met. 

The Elf nodded, but did not leave, and Arnuilas cocked her head. “Is there something else you need of us?”

“ Indeed there is, but it is not something we need, but rather an offer I was charged to make.” He turned to Boromir, then gestured towards the Man's belt, where he carried the broken halves of the Horn of Gondor. “I was told that you have an artefact in your possession that has been damaged, an artefact of great worth to you and your people, and the Lady Galadriel sent me to ask you if you would like to have it restored by our Elven craftsmen.” 

Boromir seemed near startled by the proposition, and his hand slowly wandered his side in what seemed like an attempt to protect his heirloom from the Elves whom he still saw as some kind of threat to him, though she knew not why. They had healed him and welcomed him into their City after their initial reluctance, but yet...

His fingers gently stroked the gold and the horn it was made of. “Some things better remain broken...”

The pain in his voice startled her, and she quietly stepped forward. “But this is not one of them, Boromir.”

“ Is it not?” asked her quietly, with pain and fear in his eyes, and she smiled. 

“ No... and it will be passed on to your sons and their sons, as it should be.”

He swallowed harshly and nodded, then disentangled the leather band from his belt and handed it to the waiting Elf. “It is an heirloom of the Stewards of Gondor, and it has always called out to those of a heart to hear it. Treat it with care.”

“ Fear not, for we will.” The Elves nodded to them, then left, and they could settle back onto their bed, that was now kept company by a desk, filled with books, and a chest, containing what little clothing their generous hosts had gifted to them. 

“ So we will be off in little more than three weeks,” he said, quietly, ponderously, and she nodded.

“ We will.”

 

_ May the 21 _ _ st _ _ , Year 2019 of the Third Age.  _

 

Caras Galadhon glittered in the evening sun while the first lamps flared up in the twilight between its leaves, and Arnuilas carefully manoeuvred through the Elven crowds quickly gathering in the streets. Word had arrived from the northern boarder that Lord Elrond's party would arrive in the city at nightfall, and so rarely did the Lord of Rivendell leave his home to see his kin living on the far side of the Mountains that the Galadhrim had gathered to welcome him. With him was his daughter Arwen, travelling to Gondor so that her and her beloved's wishes might be fulfilled, as well as many of Elrond's House, and the Dúnedain who had remained in the North to fight the shadow and now turned south at their King's behest.

It was the last group that interested her most, for while she knew the Elves of Rivendell well and had made many friends among them, she longed to see her own kin again, and among them most particularly, her family. That her mother was too frail to travel, she knew, but she hoped that her brother and his wife might be among those coming to the city. It had been too long since she had seen their dear faces, and though Boromir's company was growing on her with every passing day, she could not deny that she missed those closest to her heart.

Cries and cheers announced the arrival of the travellers, and she felt her excitement pushing a broad grin to her lips as she watched the Lord Elrond and the highest members of his House ride through the restored gates of Caras Galadhon. After them followed countless Elves and Humans, and Arnuilas eagerly scoured the crowd looking for traces of her brother and sister. But among so many men and women she knew, who greeted her with all the cheerfulness of finding one whom they had not expected to see alive again, she could not find them, and she felt her fear rise in her throat? Had they not come? But why? Had they not heard word of her returning to Lothlórien?

“ Arnuilas!”

She was prepared for another greeting and another smile before she continued her search, but the man, one of the older Rangers she had treated many years ago, continued before she could slip away. “Are you looking for Afrad and Berella?”

She startled and nodded, and he patted her arm in a gesture that made bile rise in her throat. “What is it?”

“ They have not come, girl. I am sorry.”

She tried to hide her disappointment, as years of fighting had taught her to, and she swallowed. “But why? Has King Elessar not sent for all of his kin to come to Gondor to live a life of peace and happiness?”

“ He has,” replied the man, “but your brother has chosen not to heed his call.”

She swallowed again, more harshly this time, as she began to suspect what had kept her brother from travelling south. “He does not see himself fit for the company of a King, does he? Because he lost his leg, fighting for that same man when he had been his Chieftain. What utter rubbish.”

Her bitterness coloured her voice, and the Ranger shook his head. “You may know that and I too, but not your brother, Arnuilas. There are scars on his soul as well as on his body.”

Her deep sigh helped her push her anger away. “I had nevertheless hoped to see him here.”

“ And he sends his greetings, and hopes that you will meet again soon, when you return north.”

_ Will I? _ The question came into her mind unbidden and unexpected, but she dared not ponder it too much, as the answer was too intricately linked to the man she tried not to think about, even though she saw him every day.

“ Then I thank you for conveying them.” 

 

_ May the 24 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age.  _

 

With every day that passed, every day that took him nearer to returning to his home, his desire to see it again had increased, until, the evening before their departure, Lórien's charms were nothing to him compared to the fond memories of Minas Tirith, glittering in the evening light. They never left his mind completely, not while he did his last turn around the great city, running until he panted harshly, but content with the progress he had made in his recovery that was now nearly complete, not when he dressed in the finest of his Elven-made clothing, not when he escorted Arnuilas up the innumerable number of steps to Galadriel and Celeborn's house up in the skies, where they were invited to dine one last time with the company from Rivendell that had arrived three days before.

Her hand rested on his arm, a pleasant weight that now, one he could support easily, and one that he did not feel very often. Usually, she told him with a smile that she was still very capable of walking on her own, a statement that only made him chuckle now; for indeed, during most of their acquaintance, he had first needed her aid and then limped, only now regaining his ability to walk properly. She only left his side when she hurried off to greet an old friend, Elven or Human, and then returned to him with a smile and a word of explanation, and sometimes even with an introduction.

The speed with which he felt her next to him again made that strange feeling of possessiveness that he had struggled to oppress for the last weeks rise again, only to be quashed by his thoughts ruthlessly. She had spent the night with him, yes, but in addition to her beauty, she was also strong and of an independent mind, and from their quarrel in the woods he surmised that she would not take to it kindly when he called her  _ his _ , even in the depths of his mind. That did not even take into account the danger of the words slipping out if he did not catch himself every time he tried to think them... he softly shook his head, but fortunately, the small gesture went unnoticed by her, who observed the magnificent tables set up in front of the hall where the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim held court. 

“ It is beautiful, is it not?” she whispered, and, after looking around and seeing the golden lights that shimmered through the fresh green leaves of the tree and the beautiful flowers strewn on white cloth, he had to agree. 

“ It is.”

She smiled up to him, but before she could speak again, they were asked to take their places at the main table, where Elrond and his children sat with the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, and many of their households. Was this at the direction of their hosts? Was he to sit among those high and mighty in Middle Earth, those of Elven blood, after all he had done? It had to be on Arnuilas' account that they were placed here! Then again... he still was the son of Denethor of Gondor, of the House of Húrin, and brother to the current steward, for by now, Aragorn surely was crowned and Faramir had succeeded his father. Maybe that counted even among those eternal and immortal...

Though this was a day of joy, the air around those dining with them seemed sombre, even to Boromir's eyes, not truly fitted for this banquet given to bid farewell to the Lord and Lady of the land... those sitting around them mostly ate quietly, only whispering to their neighbours in that beautiful Elven tongue he still did not understand, though by now he was able to make out a few words he had picked up. They almost seemed... sad, he thought, their beautiful eyes shrouded, and when Elrond stood, raising his goblet of wine as the main course had been taken away, this feeling was only strengthened.

“ A happy day it is, to see so many of us united with our kin over the mountains, able to travel without fear of darkness, and yet, we have not met our goal. To Gondor we are to go, to Minas Tirith, whence some of those present today hail,” he toasted to Boromir, who stood and bowed in respect, “to see my daughter Arwen Undómiel bound in marriage to King Elessar the First of Gondor, the man known as Aragorn in the North. The day of their union will be a happy one, both for our people and theirs, and yet, I have dreaded it for some time, as every father shall understand, and even more so, as our parting will last for all of eternity. Be it now heard that all of you who wish to witness this alliance shall be welcomed in Minas Tirith, and may accompany me on my quest south.” He looked around, his grey eyes wandering over those seated at his table and resting a bit longer on Boromir, or so he felt, than on the others, before he raised his goblet even higher, Vilya shimmering on his finger. “Let us drink now, to the health and felicity of bride and groom.”

All stood and did, more quietly so than any congregation of Men would have, and then dessert was brought forth, though Boromir had no real appetite for it, and those around him, especially Arnuilas, felt the same. They returned to their small flett as soon as they had finished, nothing but the clothes they would ride in the next day still set out, the rest of it all stored, and gazed up at the stars while they listened to the beautiful yet infinitely sad Elven songs.

“ Why are they so grieved?” he finally asked and Arnuilas sighed heavily.

“ They see their world ending; who would not be, considering that?”

“ But we have won, have we not? The Dark Lord is defeated.”

“ _ We _ have won, yes, Boromir, but  _ we _ are the race of Men. They have forfeited more than they have gained, in seeing the Ring destroyed, for the Three Rings of the Elves are now powerless also, and their bearers will return to the lands that lay west ere long.”

He still must have looked puzzled, for she continued, explaining, “The Third Age was the last of the Elves, and not their prime – they will either sail to the Undying Lands, or fade. In centuries to come, the descendants of Arwen Undómiel will be the last carrying a remnant of Elven blood into Middle Earth.”

He looked at her. “You seem sad at this.”

“ I am. They have been our brothers and friends for so long, that I fear standing alone against the dark, though it will not happen in my lifetime, or even that of my children.”

“ You are not alone,” he whispered, leaning closer, inhaling her scent he had missed for so long, and feeling longing, by now nearly familiar, rising inside him. “You are not alone.”

She nodded softly and leaned into him, his hands by now finding her back and neck near of their own volition, after the many nights he had held her, desiring to take more from her than the comfort of her sleeping form in his arms. His kiss was sweet and soft at first, but then, as he knew that they would depart on the morrow, without any chance at privacy for many weeks, he drew her closer to him and she acquiesced readily, her mouth opening for him as he sought entry, her lips hungrily devouring his. She tasted like wine and sweet fruits, her body soft and warm as his hands roamed her back while her fingers found their way under his shirt, and he moaned. He  _ wanted _ her, wanted her with all the fire of a strong-willed and proud man, the same fire he saw in her steadily darkening eyes as she cupped his cheek. “I know,” she whispered roughly before she kissed him again. 


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Into the South

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Fifteen: Into the South**

_ May the 25 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age.  _

 

The next morning saw their departure from Caras Galadhon with a large company of Elves and Men, most of them women and children the Rangers that had travelled south during the war had sent for to follow them. Now that his dislike of Aragorn had, though not passed entirely, at least lessened, he wanted to get to know them, to find out more about those he had heard so much about from Arnuilas and who were to be part of his people, attached as they were to his King. She was kind enough to introduce him during their ride, a service only more appreciated by him as he found that she was riding with her kin for part of the day, talking and laughing on her horse, a sound that carried far and never failed to catch his attention.

His gaze was drawn to her by her voice, her looks, her smile, or only by the way the late spring sun sparkled on the dark tendrils of her hair. “Foolish man,” he chastised himself, a sentiment often repeated during their languid journey south to Edoras, but nevertheless, he found that he was glad so few men travelled with them, for every time he saw her talking to Elladan or Elrohir, Elrond's handsome sons, or one of her Ranger friends, he felt a pang of jealousy. How bad would that be as soon as they arrived in Minas Tirith, full of men and women eager to celebrate and to embrace their kinsfolk from the North? He knew not.

Part of him had feared that they would follow the Anduin, travel south by boat, for he knew not if he could face Rauros and its never ending roar again so soon, but his trepidation was in vain; they never left sight of the mountains to their right, and their course diverged from that of the river, not coming closer to it for many weeks. They crossed the Limlight and entered Rohan after five days, travelling along the outskirts of the Forest of Fangorn escorted by riders sent out from Edoras, until they reached the Entwash. There, with the White Mountains of his homeland already in sight, they turned south, crossing the West Emnet until, three and a half weeks after they had departed, their party reached Edoras, the Golden Hall on the hill glittering over the plains of Rohan from afar. Boromir's heart swelled at the sight. This was the home of the Rohirrim, the people who had stood by his steadfastly since the days of Eorl the Young – it was, though not home, very close to it, and he smiled and rose in the saddle to see further ahead.

 

_ June the 15 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

A crowd had gathered outside the city, greeting them with cheers and flowers as they followed the path to the gates of Edoras, and then advanced through the city until, after leaving their horses in the care of the stables, they reached the Golden Hall, on the doorstep of which stood Éomer and Éowyn of the Mark.

“ Hail Éomer King!” called out Celeborn as soon as he had reached the stone platform, with his people standing behind him. Boromir's heart clenched at the words – what had happened to Théoden King, and his son and heir, Théodred? Had both of them died in this wicked war?

“ Hail!” replied he, observing his guests for a moment, then stepping aside to allow them into the Golden Hall, where they were welcomed into the Mark and then treated to the feast that had already been laid out for them. The stew, meat and ale were very much unlike the Elven cuisine, and Boromir relished it, glad to taste a meal more homely than the light bread and fruits, which, though delicious, had still been a strange diet to him, accustomed to Gondorian kitchen as he was. 

For a while, he was content to sit, eat and listen, hearing the tale of Théodred's death at the hands of Saruman's forces and Théoden's glorious last battle on the Pelennor, but after a while, his eyes and mind began to wander, and invariably he ended up regarding Arnuilas as she sat talking, this time with one of the women, a distant cousin he thought, who, though still tall and pretty, was not nearly as beautiful as she. Only since they had departed Lórien and they had found themselves in greater company again had he realized much he had enjoyed their previous intimacy, the time he had had her to himself, mostly because no one else she could really spend time with was around. But now, that had changed, and he found that he envied the others for every minute of her attention she bestowed on them, wanted to be in their place, see her smile, hear her laugh... maybe even feel her touch? He had not kissed her since their night spent together before they departed Lórien, and he wondered if her desire had cooled, now that there were others to be had, others she could talk to... maybe even sleep with? He grit his teeth at the thought, suppressing his jealousy.

His reasoning argued that he knew her, that she was a good woman, a brave woman, one who would tell him if she fancied another, because he deserved that honesty... but the small voice in his head always interfered, whispering that she had spent the night with him without really knowing him, without a promise made between them... so she would do that with others, would she? He shook his head; he had to talk to her, find out what this between them was, and if it had any future... any future at all.

Most of the company excused themselves early, after a full day of travelling, to their quarters, either in the Golden Hall itself or in the city beyond, but Boromir stayed, as did Arnuilas, his gaze scarcely leaving her, until he saw out of the corner of his eye that she finally stood. He preceded her out of the hall, knowing that she and some other women had been given a room in the city together, and when he could see her descend the steps, he finally approached her. “Arnuilas.”

She startled, her hand flying to her hip, looking bare without the dagger she had always carried, but after a second, she recognized him, smiling. “Boromir. I have not expected you.”

He smiled and stepped closer, taking her arm. “Would you care for a walk?”

For a moment, she hesitated, but then finally nodded, following his lead as they walked through the dark streets of Edoras, as most of the citizens had already gone to sleep, and only here and there they could see light through a window. The city was just as silent as they, both of them not inclined to talk, until they reached a particularly dark, small street between a row of houses and the wall surrounding the town. There, he took her face in hand and leaned in to kiss her, his heart pounding, and to his surprise, she melted into his arms and wrapped hers around his neck, her tongue eagerly seeking out his.

“ I have missed you,” he whispered between breathy kisses, both his voice and his movements full of a need he had not expected to arise, and so soon. He wanted her, craved her touch, and the way her fingers ghosted over the bare skin of his neck, beneath his dark hair, was decidedly not enough to fulfil his need. When she pulled away, disentangling his fingers from her long, dark hair and making a few, unsteady steps back, he felt bereft, and closed in on her quickly.

“ I have missed you too... but... we cannot...here,” she murmured breathlessly, and, though with reluctance, he was forced to agree with her – for all he knew, a guard could stumble upon them any minute.

“ You are right,” he answered, voice of reason speaking out of him, but nevertheless, he was ridiculously pleased that she had not pushed him back, and now stood in front of him, cheeks flushed and hair tousled, her eyes dark with desire and her breath unsteady. Slowly, to keep himself controlled, he approached her, and smiled. “I have a room of my own at the Hall...”

He traced the tip of his finger down her neck, and then followed the hem of her dress to where her breasts lay hidden, touching them as if accidentally, and she sighed with pleasure, replying huskily, “Then lead the way.”

 

_ June 16 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

She returned to what should have been her quarters for this night in the wee hours of the morning, hair tousled and her clothes in complete disarray, having donned them hastily a few minutes before she had left Boromir. Maybe she could catch an hour or so of sleep before they had to get ready to depart Edoras, and maybe none of the other women, some of them friends she knew from childhood, would not be awake yet when she returned to the rooms they had been given.

Her luck held... only sleeping forms greeted her when she returned to the hall where they had spread their blankets on the floor, and she laid down with a quiet and tired sigh. It had been worth it, though... her evening – and her night! – had more than made up for her lack of sleep, and a small smile spread over her features. She had not realized how much she had missed him on the long trek to the South, his quiet presence when she fell asleep, his arms that held her at night, his steady heartbeat when she slept with her head on his shoulder. And yet his kisses and caresses had felt bittersweet, like seeing the beauties of Lothlórien, knowing that the Golden Wood would soon fade in those darkening times, when the Elves left the shores of Middle Earth.

_ And you know why, do you not?  _ She blinked when unbidden tears sprang to her eyes, and hastily wiped them off her cheeks, determined not to cry.  _ What would a man like Boromir want with you, now that the war is over? _

The thought hurt, more than she cared to admit, but what the last weeks of travelling in a larger party had shown her was that the bliss of Lothlórien would not continue. Both he and she had their lives and their responsibilities, and they would return to them now that the war that had thrown them together was over.  _ He will return to Minas Tirith, and marry one of those pretty Gondorian noblewomen, and then take the seat he was born to take, as Steward of Gondor. There is no place for an uncouth Ranger from the North in that city, and even less so at his side.  _

_And I... I will return to the North, and continue fighting the Shadows still lingering in Angmar, until they cost me my life or I am too old to wield a sword. What man would want a warrior now that the times are changing and my usefulness diminishes?_

She blinked as fresh tears dripped down her cheeks, and now she let them, hiding under her blankets as she heard the first of the people around her stir.  _ Prepare for the day, foolish girl. Prepare for the day when he throws you off.  _

And even though she had thought she was prepared, that she had guarded her heart, she felt that it would hurt immeasurably more than she had ever thought possible.

 

They departed later in the morning, and Arnuilas had trouble keeping her fatigue at bay during the whole day, and even the next, but thought all of it worth it. Their night together had been... good, him becoming more and more attentive to her needs and cravings, his lips finding that secret place on the base of her neck that was particularly deserving of his ministrations... she smiled with sadness that was tinged with despair. It would be a pity when it was over.

Despite her fear of attaching herself too much to him, she rode with him during the next days, enjoying his delight at seeing his homeland again, which they entered after crossing the Mering Stream. He seemed to have a story about every rock and clearing, either about battles with the Orcs of Mordor held in those lands, or childhood pranks of his and his brother, the latter of which became more frequent as they came closer to Minas Tirith. Upon beholding the city from afar, however, he looked sad, and she could understand why – even to her, who had not seen the White Tower in all its glory, the damages both to it and the surrounding land, full of scorched trees and ruined granges, was evident, and she reached out and pressed his hand in comfort. “It is over, and all will be well.”

Finally, the doubt in his eyes receded and he smiled. “Yes. Yes, it will.”

The approached the city from the North, through the gates that had been crushed, and folk had gathered around them, crying out in excitement as the first of them recognized Lord Boromir among the strange Elves that came to visit their land. It was then that Arnuilas pulled away from his side – this was his city and his welcome, and she did not want to hear rumours about their ties if she stayed to close to him. That connection would be severed soon enough, and it would not do to tarnish his good name – or hers – for something that would end all too soon.

The joyous news spread through Minas Tirith fast, attracting even more of its inhabitants when they heard that the Lord Boromir, the son of the steward, the man all of them had believed dead had returned from the North. To Arnuilas, it seemed that as soon as he heard the cheers of his people, he rose even higher in the saddle, looking even more proud and stern and, for the first time, she truly saw him as the mighty warrior he was, as a true Captain of the White Tower.

Though she was proud, proud that she had returned such a man from the brink of death, she felt tears sting in her eyes also; it made it even more unlikely that a man like he would choose one as she... there would be crows of girls from Gondor, girls half her age, vying for his attention in a few, short days.

They reached the courtyard of the Citadel, where the King and the Steward, amongst many others, already awaited them, and they alighted from their horses; Elrond surrendered the sceptre of Annúminas and laid the hand of his daughter in that of the King, while Arnuilas smiled and blinked her tears away. So long had they hoped for their Chieftain... and now that all his wishes were fulfilled, her own sadness should not permeate her joy for him.

 

_First Lithe, Year 3019 of the Third Age_

 

Boromir saw Elrond as he gave his daughter away to Aragorn, but he noticed it only idly, as an afterthought as he held himself back, staring at the only person that mattered now, in this moment – Faramir. Steward's staff in hand he stood next to the King, a few steps behind him as was his due, observing the assembled company without any particular curiosity, Obviously he had not heard the news spreading through the city, had not heard of his arrival, until Boromir could feel his grey eyes, so like his own, settle upon him and saw him startle, turning pale as though he had seen a ghost.

“ Boromir.” His voice was not even a whisper, unheard of by all those around him, and only his brother saw him mouth his name, sending a tight smile over the courtyard to Faramir as his heart constricted in fear he had not known before. They stared at each other during the brief ceremony of greeting their guests, and as soon as the crowds began to move through the open gates of the Citadel, Faramir lounged forward, ignoring both his duties and his king to reach the brother he had thought dead.

“ Boromir,” he repeated, but before he had any chance to react, he was pulled into a tight hug that seemed to last for an eternity as he felt Faramir's arms around him. “I knew... but I knew I had lost you! I saw your boat... and I took your sword's hilt, to bring it back to father... how have you survived?”

“ I was... cared for, and returned to Lórien from where we had set out as soon as I was able.” Faramir regarded him with the sharp eyes of a man who saw more than was apparent, but did not press the matter for the moment, and instead drew back from him, not without a last, hearty strike to his back. “It is good to have you back, brother, especially as it was a surprise. Come and sit with me, and we will talk.”

He was eager to do so, but before they could take their places at the long table in the banquet hall, there were greetings he was looking forward to with no little amount of trepidation to be discarded. As soon as Faramir left his side, he could see Aragorn approach, and behind him – Gandalf! But how! He had seen the wizard fall into the depths of Moria with the Balrog, and now he was here, clad in white, his hair and beard lighter than before, and leaning on his staff like nothing had happened to him! But there were more important considerations to attend to right now, and he turned towards Aragorn, tension rising between them. “My King.”

He sunk to one knee, and to his surprise, the intent dislike, hatred even, and the humiliation he had expected upon seeing that stranger standing in  _ his _ city, surrounded and cheered at by  _ his _ people, failed to appear... instead, he felt his respect rise for that man who now truly looked the scion of Kings that he had claimed to be.

“ Rise, Boromir, son of Denethor.” He did, and stood in front of Elessar, heir of Elendil, who suddenly seemed so much taller than he, though he could not remember a disparity in their height before. “For you are not only a great warrior and a hero of Gondor, but also a friend, and you shall sit at my table tonight and tell me of your survival.”

“ I will, my Lord.”

Gandalf stepped forward, a kind smile playing on his lips, and Boromir started. “You have survived! But how!”

The wizard's mien darkened, obviously unwilling to discuss his reappearance. “I have fallen into the shadows, but returned from them to play my part in this war – as have you.”

“ And your role has been greater than mine.” 

Gandalf nodded and stepped aside, together with Aragorn, to join Arwen, and Boromir breathed a sigh of relief. At least this was over, but it was not the worst of it. As the other guests entered the hall, he was reunited with Legolas, Gimli and three of the Hobbits, who all exclaimed at their delight at seeing him again, and in surprisingly good health. The only one that did not join them was Frodo, who stood aside near the fountain and the new tree, delightful in bloom, until Boromir turned to him, the courtyard now empty safe the few guards, dropping to his knee. It was easier this time, and he reached out, gathering the Hobbit's hand in his large, forcing himself to ignore the finger that was missing. Frodo winced as he felt his touch, and Boromir quickly drew away, feeling his face redden with shame – shame and reproach he had truly earned. “I am sorry. I cannot express with words how sorry I am, Frodo Baggins, for my abhorrent deed. I, who professed to be your friend, your companion, from whom you could expect loyalty, betrayed you... and I am sorry.”

Frodo cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I know, Boromir, and very well you should be. But I cannot hold a grudge against you, as much as I would like, because I know of two things... the Ring's terrible power, to which I succumbed myself in the end, and that without your betrayal, I would never have gone alone. I do not know of the things that could have passed, but I fear that, had Aragorn continued with me into the lands of the Enemy, Minas Tirith would have fallen – and I would have regretted to see so much beauty destroyed.”

Boromir felt tears sting in his eyes, and closed them for a moment to hold them at bay, to prevent them from rolling down his tears, then nodded and looked at Frodo again. “I thank you, Frodo Baggins. I haven proven an inconsistent companion, and yet, if it is not too much to ask... would you call me friend again?”

“ I will... friend.” The word came uneasily and quietly, but it came, and he delighted in the feeling of it, though part of him knew that this was a debt that, albeit forgiven, he would never be able to discharge.

“ Thank you. I thank you with all my heart.”

He stood, and they walked together into the great hall, where he took his place between the King and his brother, feeling his mortification washed away by the welcome he had been tended to that extended all of the expectations he had – foolishly? – kindled while recovering in Lórien. As he recovered his equanimity, his gaze inevitably wandered along the table until he spotted Arnuilas, sitting with some of the Rangers from the North, men that had come to Gondor at their Chieftain's call. For a moment, he felt jealousy rise, but then chastised himself for it quickly. He had no right to to envy the strangers at her side, just as he had no right on her, and she had talked of friends to meet in Minas Tirith – who was he to deny her that pleasure? Maybe he would even ask for an introduction.

The small smiled she flashed towards him as soon as she caught his gaze served to drive away his discomfort entirely, restoring his peace to him, at least for some time. He had been foolish in not wanting to return to his beautiful city, though she was now marred with blood and the scars of battle, he understood that now, and was glad that Galadriel's intervention had brought him back here... here where his heart belonged, and had from his earliest days.

He smiled as he ate and drank, hearing the stories of Faramir's campaign in Ithilien and their glorious victory over Sauron at the Morannon, and rejoiced in his brother's happiness, though he could not deny the seeds of jealousy in his heart. He had wanted to be with his kinsman, share the fame and glory he had won in battle, help in the defence of Minas Tirith... and yet, he had lain in a damp cellar near Rauros, and been nursed back to health without playing any part in the end of the war. Even Pippin had ridden to the gates of Mordor to confront the host of the enemy! And he... he had very nearly taken the Ring from its bearer and thus destroyed all their hope!

“ So what have you done, while we were riding into battle?” asked Faramir finally, after the dessert had been cleared away, and Boromir laughed, though it was a sound marred with hidden bitterness.

“ Not much, brother, not much.” He told him of his painstakingly slow recovery, the days they travelled north, his battles with the Orcs, and his time in Lórien until they departed to Minas Tirith again. Unsure of what to say about her, even unsure what to think, he spoke not much about Arnuilas, but his brother seemed to notice his omissions as well as his words, for he smiled. “And who is this remarkable woman? Have I been introduced to her?”

“ I think not.” He indicated her at the far end of the table when she did not look in their direction, and Faramir nodded as he regarded her for a moment. 

“ She is handsome.”

Though Boromir clandestinely thought the same, and for some time now, he was reluctant to admit it where everyone could hear. “I suppose.”

His brother laughed. “You suppose? Have four months of being near solely in her presence not sufficed to ascertain her features? Or have you gone blind, too, in addition to your limp?”

It was only a tease, and a good-natured one at that, coming from an affectionate brother, and yet, it stung – did Faramir truly think he had not noticed how beautiful she was, had even been in her sullied clothes, stained with what he only later had come to realize must have been his blood? He softly shook his head. And how had he noticed his limp? The pain from the injury was all but gone, courtesy to the Elven healers, who had even apologized to him for not being able to do more, and he only felt it keenly when he moved too hastily... but it seemed that he did not move with as much grace and poise as he had before. “Obivously not.”

His voice, tense and court, closed the topic between them, at least for the moment, for Boromir came to regret his words moments after he had spoken them, and Faramir obviously recognized his brother's reluctance to discuss both the woman who had saved his life, and the injuries he had received. They talked of other, inconsequential things, their happiness at being reunited safe and sound not the least among them, and then retired with the others, for dinner had been late and the guests, having travelled a long way during the day, were wary.


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Home at Last

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Sixteen: Home at Last**

_First Lithe, Year 3019 of the Third Age_

 

It felt near unreal for Boromir to return to his old chambers, adjacent to those of his brother, where he had resided since he had left the nursery behind, to shake off his Elven clothes and indulge in a bath he had lacked for so long, sighing as he slid into the hot water. He was back... he was back at home, and though so much was still unresolved, his future chiefly standing out among those matters, that fact alone gave him a considerable amount of comfort. Then again... there was something he lacked at this moment, and wanted to have with him... Arnuilas. But it was not to be; after the magnificent dinner in the hall, she had bid him a good night and then left with her kin to a house in the city, much like in Edoras, and this time, he had not followed her.

He sighed and raked his fingers through his dark, wet hair, dipping under water to wash it, and then leaned back. It would have been a pleasant prospect, to kiss her again, but it was not to be – not now, and not in Minas Tirith. In Lórien, or even in Edoras, they had been very much able to do as they wished, their matters only being a concern for them and not for others, but this had changed the moment they set food into the city. Here, he would be recognized with every step he took, and his acts were capable of harming her reputation, and considerably... though morales in the North were quite different, from what he had heard from her, here in Gondor, relationships that were not marriages were frowned upon... and he did not want that for her, did not want her to be laughed and and ridiculed, or, worse, shunned and scorned because she had slept with him.

Judging from her reaction when they had entered the city – she had chosen to ride with the Rangers instead of at his side – she understood that well, and part of him was grateful for her keen mind. It saved him from explanations that would have been painful to make, and could so easily be misunderstood...

He had wanted to stay a bit longer in the warm, soothing water, but with this train of thought, his peace was gone, and he stepped out of the tub and dried himself, slipping into a light shirt and breeches; he was not tired, only exhausted, and wanted to wake a little longer. His steps carried him to one of his windows, overlooking the city, glistening in the white moonlight, and the dark gardens of the Pelennor, and he sighed again, more deeply this time. What he needed to do and had neglected until now was decide – decide where this... affair? he knew not if it was the right word, but opted to use it for the moment anyway... with Arnuilas would lead. If he judged his conduct by the standards that had been ingrained in him from his first days, the only thing he could do was offer for her, and swiftly – but would she want that? Their last confrontation had instilled a healthy respect for her strong will and active mind in him, and he doubted that she would take kindly to the notion that after what they had done, they must marry. She would refute it, claim that as soon as she returned home, it would not matter any more... that it would be best for both their happiness to end this eventually, and not stay together indefinitely.

_ Would it? _ The question came to him unbidden and unwanted, ambushed him from the depths of his mind where it had lurked for some time.  _ Would it make you unhappy to stay with her? Or to part with her? _ He swallowed. Now, his answer was clear – he wanted her, not only in his bed, but also at his side, smiling and laughing, where he could look at her and relish the thought that such a strong, brave woman was with him, and no one else. Then again, that was a selfish desire – only thinking about his needs, and hardly about hers. What would her answer to his question be? In his mind, it was clear... she loved her freedom more than she cared about him, and would never part with it to stay in Gondor with a man she hardly ever knew, and who had not even seen fit to tell her about his greatest secret, his greatest weakness. And she would be right – he had seen his mother wither and finally die, confined as she was to this White City, at the side of a man she loved, but not more than she loved her home, her happiness always laced with regret. No, he could do that to wife, and least of all to the woman whom he owed so much.

A knock on his door made him turn, and for a moment, he hoped that it would be her, but as it opened before he had even called out to enter, he knew who it was – Faramir slid into his bedroom with a slight smile on his face, also casually dressed. “Brother.”

He smiled and hugged him again, an unusual display of emotions between them, but one he desperately needed at this moment, for Faramir was the one he knew he could always count on, the one who would never desert him.

“ I have hoped to find you awake, for I fear there is much we have to talk, a lot of news to convey, and the night is so very short.”

Boromir stifled a laugh, thinking of the countless evenings when his little brother had slid into his bedroom to talk the night away on inconsequential, boyish things, like the new filly in the stables or how he had managed to hit his instructor with his wooden sword, but the emotion was short-lived as Faramir led him away with quite a serious mien, to his sitting room, so the servants could clear away the bath. On closer consideration, his brother even seemed... nervous, and he wondered about it for a moment until realization struck him.  _ He's steward, and I am not, and now he does not know if I resent him for it. _ Had he not known what awaited him in Gondor, and specifically chosen that path, seeing his brother taking precedence over him would have shocked and maybe alienated him, but now the problem presented itself quite differently. It was one thing to tell Galadriel that he did not want the office, and another one entirely to explain to his brother, who loved him a great deal and regarded him as the best of men, why exactly he did not see himself fit for it.

He closed the door behind them and Faramir went through the motions of sitting, only to jump up again, pacing the carpet, while Boromir leaned at the desk, thinking of how to start this entirely unpleasant discussion so it might be over as soon as possible. Faramir bested him, however, suddenly standing in front of him and grabbing his forearms. “I am so sorry, brother... had I known that you are alive, I would never have usurped... I would never have consented to be made steward. The office is your inheritance, and not mine... and father would have wished...”

He closed his eyes, pain evident on his handsome features, and Boromir reached out to pull him close for a moment. “Don't,” he just answered as Faramir pulled away, trying hard to school his features in something that closer resembled equanimity, but failed, at least in the eyes of one that knew him so well. “I know what has happened to father, so you do not have to be the bearer of ill news, and I have also been aware for a long time now that you have been chosen as steward. You forget that I have resided in the land of one of the greatest seers of our time.”

Faramir stared at him. “You have known... why have you not sent word?”

Boromir shook his head and motioned for them to sit near the empty fireplace, sinking heavily down into his chair, suddenly feeling both very tired and older than his years. “I have not, Faramir, because I think that you will be better suited as steward than I could ever be.”

He had not thought that his brother's surprise could still heighten, but it did. “Why do you think so little of yourself, brother?”

He shook his head. “I do not; in time of war, I would not have hesitated to assume it, because I know that I am a seasoned warrior and an experienced commander. But this is not war; now we are looking forward to decades, maybe even centuries of peace, and that is neither my realm, nor is staying in Minas Tirith, reading the records of old and passing advice to a King who knows so much more than I myself ever can, something that would make me happy indefinitely. For a few months, yes, maybe even for a year, but then I will grow restless... and what shall happen then? Shall the Steward leave his King and his people to ride into battle, where no battle is to be found? No, Faramir... I think a post as a commander, as forward and exposed as possible, will suit me much better.”

“ Are you sure about this? You could change your mind, and I am loath to send you off into danger again, when I have just found you again, brother.”

“ I am sure... I have had time to think on it, and I am convinced that this is the best thing I can do. You will do fine, brother, and better than I ever could.” He smiled, and Faramir, after eyeing him for a moment intently, returned the gesture before, finally, sitting down and looking comfortable with it. 

“ I am just relieved that I will not be the one to tell you about father's death. Has... has Lady Galadriel told you all?”

“ She has,” replied he sombrely, and Faramir nodded. 

“ I hope you were not alone when you found out.”

The memory of Arnuilas' lips on his came back with full force at his brother's words, but he pushed them down quickly. “Rest assured, I have not.”

“ Then she has been with you?”

“ She?”

“ Arnuilas. The woman who has saved you.”

“ Yes... yes, she was kind enough to keep me company for all those months. I must admit, I would have felt quite lost among all those Elves while I was recuperating.”

His brother's brow furrowed for a moment, but soon smoothed again, and Faramir smiled. “I, also, was not alone in the Houses of Healing. Lady Éowyn of Rohan was with me.”

The turn his thoughts took now made him realize how what he had told his brother before might come across to his brother, but there was nothing to do about it now; he just smiled. “And?”

“ And we are to be wed as soon as we have laid her uncle, King Théoden, to rest.”

“ Now are you!” He laughed and clapped his brother's shoulder. “These are joyous news indeed; what kind of lady is she?”

“ She is very beautiful...”

“ Of course she is!”

Faramir laughed. “She is very beautiful, as I have already said, and she has fought in the Battle of Pelennor Fields, slaying the Witch King of Angmar.”

“ She has?” Boromir stared at his brother, trying to remember the woman he had briefly met in Edoras, with whom he had barely exchanged a dozen words before their departure for Minas Tirith. “That is... impressive.”

“ Oh yes, it is – and a bit intimidating, I dare say, to have a wife so much more worthy than myself. But she is worth all the jewels of our treasury, and a lot more... I am lucky to have gained her hand in marriage.”

The besotted look his brother sported as he stared into the approximate direction of Edoras convinced Boromir that he had, indeed, found the lady to finally conquer his heart, and he smiled. “Then I congratulate you.”

Faramir smiled. “And I thank you.”

Both of them stared out into the star-sprinkled night over the city, unwilling to part so soon after so long a separation, and finally his brother turned towards him, brow furrowed. “Why do I have the feeling that the more we talk, the more you leave out? What is it that you are concealing, brother?”

Boromir sighed deeply; there was so much he had not spoken about to his brother, from his affair with Arnuilas to his trying to take the Ring from Frodo... and yet, he felt not like telling about it. He did not want to spoil this evening of joy that had allowed him, albeit only for a few hours, to forget about all that still troubled him, and especially about his uncertain future.

“ Are you telling me everything that has troubled you in my absence, brother? I think not.”

“ No, I am not – but I am not the one sitting around brooding and thinking during a celebration. Do not forget that I am your brother, Boromir, and that I know you well. It perturbs you that you were not part of the great, glorious battles and have instead been nursed back to health, by a woman whose part in your story you have conspicuously left out. I have noticed, brother, and I am sure that others have too.”

Boromir felt his jaw set into that familiar, defiant line as he turned to face Faramir. “And why exactly is that your concern?”

“ Because you are my brother, the only kin I have left on this earth, and I wish for your happiness as much as I wish for mine. And... I do not want you to resent me, because I have fought to defend Minas Tirith and you did not.”

He felt stupid as soon as he heard his brother's answer, but feeling thus and admitting it were two very different things, and so he just shook his head. “I assure you, I will not. It has grated on me to sit out the battles, but I have come to terms with it – I would not have been of much use in my condition then, anyway.”

He had said the right words, but in the wrong tone, and Faramir remained unconvinced, he could see it in the sceptical quirk of his eyebrow, but at least did not insist on furthering the topic, his “I hope that you are right” the only reply he received before his brother excused himself to rest. Boromir shook his head, continuing to survey the city in his brother's absence, watching the lights extinguish one by one and feeling the disheartening picture encompass him. That he was envious of his King's achievements in battle he had expected, but his brother? His brother, whom he had taught to wield a sword, whom he had protected in his first battle, taking that slash of a scimitar himself that had been meant for Faramir... he shook his head. It bordered on the ridiculous, especially as he knew that Faramir cared not for the valour won in combat and would gladly set his weapon aside for more peaceful pursuits when the necessity for warfare had passed.

No, he was acting foolishly, especially as he had very nearly quarrelled with him because of it, and would have to apologize for his stupidity on the morrow, a task he did not look forward to at all, with his pride so strongly ingrained into his whole being. Yet the time of pride would have to pass... he was not the son of the Ruling Steward any more, set to inherit the title should his father die, but only the spare for Faramir, one that would be replaced as soon as his brother would receive his own heir from his lady. Then he would only be one subject among thousands to King Elessar, and would have to act accordingly... and that would be hard for a man of his pride, he knew.

And Arnuilas... he shook his head. Though she did not seem to object, his conscious knew that he had acted dishonourably in treating her so, and admitting this to a brother whose opinion weighed highly with him... he truly did not want to, and much preferred for Faramir to conjecture the situation himself, which he, from his comments, had very nearly done already. It was the coward's course... and yet, he did not find the strength to change it, to steer away from the cliffs he was facing, back to the honourable way he had always prided himself on taking.

He sighed again, but finally decided that pondering and mulling further tonight would not change a thing; tomorrow was far better suited to thinking, and with that thought, he went to bed, though he could not find rest immediately, and his dreams were disturbing his peace even as he slept.

 

_Mid-Year's day, Year 3019 of the Third Age._

 

King Elessar and his queen Arwen were wed at noon, as the sun stood highest over the city, shining brightly over it, and a day of joy followed. The banquet was even more rich and plentiful than the evening before, a fact the Hobbits, especially Merry and Pippin, were eager to point out to him, and it seemed that all of Gondor's nobility was in attendance, first of them, naturally, the King and Queen themselves, followed by Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his sons and daughters, down to the Barons and those, though untitled, deemed important enough to attend. The Citadel was alive with the rustle and bustle of the guests, all of them greatly looking forward to the highlight of the festivities, the great ball given in honour of the newly wed couple.

Boromir definitely did not share the excitement of the crowd. What had been easy to drone out the day before, in his excitement to see his beautiful city and his brother again, now came forcefully to his attention as he joined in with the revellers – the confusion over his position. He doubted that any of the subjects of the King of Gondor had not known that, after his father, he was next in line to Stewardship, and not his brother, and more than once he had approached a group of former friends, only to find that their conversations suddenly ceased and they stared at him with barely hidden apprehension. That he could not answer their artfully concealed questions did not help his situation, or further his ease among the company, for he had no answers himself. He had not, as of yet, spoken to the King about his future fate, and though he could very well understand that Elessar had other concerns at his hand than the lot of an ageing commander, he still hoped that he would find out what he had in mind for him soon. The scrutiny of the nobles of Gondor was near unbearable to him, and as the evening of dancing approached, his desire to keep his distance increased, and he found himself drawn nearer and nearer to the group of Rangers of the North and their wives.

They scarcely mingled with their kinsmen of the South, the precise fact that made them attractive to him, that and the presence of the one woman who knew about his situation and would not use their conversation to discover his eligibility as a prospective marriage partner.

“ Would you care to dance with me?” he asked as soon as he had found Arnuilas, to whom he had not talked since they had approached Minas Tirith, a rare occurrence indeed after their continuously being their only company, and only when he saw that dear face of hers again, he felt how much he had missed her already.

She smiled, but he thought there was a trace of apprehension in her voice when she replied, “With delight.”

He longed to lead her to the dance floor right away, finding a moment of peace in the crowd that had gathered, but the music had not started yet, and so she introduced him to those around her instead, among them the men he had surveyed with suspicion the evening before, who turned out to be a childhood friend. Their conversation had not progressed much further than the Northerners admiring the beautiful city of Minas Tirith he had grown up in, when Aragorn led Arwen to the floor, followed by the other couples, and Boromir whisked Arnuilas away, relishing the feeling of her in his arms as they danced to the music.

The relative privacy of their situation set him at ease, more so than the conversation of those he knew since his childhood, and he could not refrain from pulling her a little closer than he would have with another, casual acquaintance.

“ So how do you like Minas Tirith, now that you have seen it? Does it live up to the expectations I have raised by telling you about it?”

She chuckled. “It does. It is indeed a very beautiful city, and you have described it most aptly. Then again, I think we always prefer our home to every other environment, no matter how beautiful it is.”

He could feel his heart sink a little. “So you long to see the North again?”

“ I do, and not even the beautiful White City will hold me back for long, I am afraid.”

The wistful expression on her face instantly convinced him that she was telling him the truth, and he suppressed a sigh. He did not want her to leave so soon, after she had barely even arrived, and some of it must have shown in his countenance, for he felt her hand move to touch his forearm softly. “Do not look so; I will not vanish in the black of the night without telling anyone about it. The Lord Elrond and his house will have to return north, and as it is, I think I will travel with them.”

“ Then you still have time to enjoy the delights of summer in the South.”

She smiled. “Yes, and I will make the most of it. This is indeed a beautiful land.”

He could not shake the distinct feeling that she was talking about more than the season and Gondor, but had no idea what she could mean, and instead led her into another turn. “My brother, the Steward Faramir, has asked for an introduction to you, if you would do me the honour of agreeing to this scheme.”

“ How could I not? It will be my honour, not yours.”

He raised her hand for a gentle kiss on the knuckles, one that turned out to be a bit longer than he had planned, and he could see her smile turn into a grin he could only to well understand. He, also, had remembered the last time he had kissed her, and not her hand, and the memory of it made him want more than he could get here, in the ballroom, under the eyes of the assembled nobles of Gondor. “I have missed you,” he whispered into her ear, knowing full well that there would be no way to rectify that in the foreseeable future, and softly stroked her arm under the delicate fabric of her dress, one of those she had received from their Elven friends.

“ And I you,” she replied, and then he was forced to give up her hand in favour of one of the Rangers from the North, a weather-worn warrior who had ridden to Aragorn's aid in his time of need. At any other time, he would have been pleased to meet the man, but now, as he saw him wrap his arm around Arnuilas' waist, taking the place where his had rested before, he could not help but feel an intense animosity towards him, one that bordered on jealousy. Even as he danced with other ladies, some of them so young that he doubted they had reached their twentieth birthday yet, he took care never to lose Arnuilas and her partners out of his sight, though why, he barely understood. It seemed he was mostly torturing himself, and he found that he longed to return to the times when she had been his, and only his, and he did not have to share her with others, even those she obviously knew for so many years.

In Lórien, he had longed for Minas Tirith, had wanted to leave the solitude of their homes in the trees behind, but now that he had been granted his wish, he found that the company of others did not make up for that of the one he had to give up for it. The girls he was dancing with now could not hold his attention with their talks of how much they had been afraid as they fled to the mountains with the other women and children, or how they had trembled when they saw Minas Tirith burn from afar. When he listened to them, in the privacy of his thoughts he compared them to Arnuilas, who had longed to ride into battle with the Elves, to put her life in danger to save those she loved or even only esteemed. That she had instead stayed behind with him to see to his comfort had only heightened his respect for her instead of diminishing it, because after the tales of won glory he had heard from his brother and Elessar, he, now more than ever, respected her for that, knowing the lure of battle as he did. She was no delicate flower that had to be admired from afar, but more like a beautiful young tree that could wither even the storms of the autumn because of strength that came from the inside, not needing the protection of others.

It was a curious thought, one that had never occurred to him before, but as he thought on it, it made more and more sense to him. From his earliest days, he had been taught that men had to protect women, that it was their duty to keep the weaker sex safe, not only from bodily harm, but also from the aspects of life that could be daunting and unpleasant... and he, as a warrior, had been particularly suited to that task. Yet never had a woman managed to command his attention as she did, and quite easily it seemed, without batting her eyelashes at him, or threatening to faint, and what other things the girls of Gondor thought attractive to a man. She was... just herself, and in doing this, she had changed his perception of her from a mere woman, one he had to care for, to a person in her own right, a person who had proven amply that she was not only capable of protecting herself, but also him. She was a woman to touch, and he had done so in the most literal sense of the word, and yet she had remained a friend and partner, had never given up her standard of holding her own, looking out for herself, and him in return. With her at his back, he thought he could feel secure, be it in battle or in a city like Minas Tirith, and her continued strength had only heightened his attraction to her.

He turned his head to spy her again, this time not dancing but talking to her kinsfolk, laughing and smiling, and he wanted to join her, but could not; no matter how dubious his current status, the young ladies did not give him the chance to leave out a dance, demanding his attention even when he just stood with his goblet of wine in hand, wanting to watch Arnuilas from afar. He had danced with her twice, and did not think that he could do another turn with her without raising the other attendant's suspicion about their relationship.

That other men, not only those from the North she knew for years, but also the nobles of Gondor she had only just met should dance with her, savour in her laugh, her smile, was something that ground on his nerves. He found himself frowning in her direction time and again, no matter how often he reminded himself that it would not do and that he should check his expression lest he invite the distrust he tried to avoid by staying away from her. In the end, he was happy that the evening was over soon, and that he could retire to the privacy of his chambers, where he could brood as much as he liked without the constant supervision of the inhabitants of Minas Tirith.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: The Future Ahead

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Seventeen: The Future Ahead**

_Mid-Year's day, Year 3019 of the Third Age._

 

She sighed softly as she stared up to the black night sky, feeling the cooling air move in through the window as the merest hint of a breeze, and averted her eyes when they turned up to the Citadel. She could feel her power over him waning – he had scarcely danced with her, talked even less, and mostly stared into her direction with that dark, brooding look that did not bode well for the future, that spoke of growing animosity towards her.

It hurt; as much as she was loath to admit it, as desperate as she was to retain her vision of strength and independence, his rejection hurt even now... and this pain would only heighten when he finally admitted what she knew already, when he told her that there was no place in his life for a woman like her. Their paths would part, at the latest when summer came to a close and she returned north to her home, as she knew she should. It was what she wanted, no, what she would want in the end, for at the moment, she enjoyed her respite from the realities of her life too much for her wanting to part with it. Seeing Minas Tirith, seeing the South, dallying a bit longer in the warmth of the friendly sun appealed to her, but she could not remain idle forever.

So many years had she had a purpose in life, had known that it was both her honour and her duty to protect the lands of Eriador from the dark forces that amassed to overtake them, to extinguish all joy in this world, that even now, when the threat had disappeared, she could not devote her life only to her own happiness and pleasure. There were things she had to do, skills she had to use, and it was easier to relegate herself to those duties than being forced to take them up again by the rejection of the man she had come to admire, despite his many faults. His disdain would hurt less when she had a plan ready, could tell him defiantly that she had never intended to stay in Gondor, but wanted to return to her home in triumph, taking up the life she had left behind when she had crossed the mountains at Elrond's orders, even though so many of the Rangers had travelled south to heed their Chieftain's call.

Yet, hurt it would... she had entangled herself too deeply into this affair to avoid the pain that would come with its end, but she could bear it. She knew she could, and she smiled at the thought, bitter though it was – when she went north again, he would be out of sight and quickly forgotten. At least that way, she would not be forced to bear witness his courting one of the pretty ladies – nay, girls – she had seen him dance with, all of them half her age, some even younger... she would be spared at least that degradation.

Her slight frown deepened as she tried to remember when the tide had turned, when she had started to want more of him than he was willing to give, but she could not determine when, or which look, which gesture, which kiss had driven her over the edge... or maybe which caress, which softly muttered endearment? She had been unaware of it then, and she did not know now... but in the end, it was of no significance – what mattered was that she wanted more than he, and that there was no way for them. But this dark, bleak future that loomed so large in her thoughts and feelings was not here, as of yet. There could still be joy found in what lay between them, and she intended to relish it as long as it lasted, especially now, as that end, in the form of one pretty girl or another, with fluttering fan and batted eyelashes, was near and she could see it coming closer with every passing day.

She sighed. It was not fair of her to think with so much disdain of the ladies of Gondor. They had not been raised as she had, had not been taught the skills needed for survival in the wilds... and nobody had ever told them that they could be more than pretty adornments for the arms of their husbands and fathers. If they knew, they could be as capable and independent warriors as any of the Rangers of the North she had ever met... and maybe some of them would aspire to that goal yet, now that so many of those strong women had come to the South.  _ Gondor will change, in time, with new generations growing up... but it will be too late for me. Boromir is a man of the old school, that much is clear.  _ She could still recollect his surprise when he had first seen her prowess in battle, as well as her skill as a healer, unused as he was to such displays from one of her gender. But his disparaging attitude had vanished quickly, and now, she thought, he respected her as well as any comrade in arms he had ever had.  _ As a comrade... not as a prospect for marriage. _

The thought's sting had diminished with time, so often had she faced it now, and with one determined movement, she shook off her melancholy and stood, sliding out of her beautiful white dress quickly and donning a more unremarkable attire, then threw her old, battered Ranger cloak over her shoulders before she slid out the door, closing it quietly as not to wake those resting in the rooms nearby. She might lose his affection, if she ever had possessed it, but there was something he had shared with her that many of the girls who now admired him would never experience... she smiled, though the weak fear that she was making a fool of herself drew nearer as she approached the Citadel. The city was deserted, all guards busy celebrating the wedding of their King and Queen, and with her experience, she easily evaded the few servants on her way up to his suite of rooms. He had once mentioned where to find it, in a story about the time he had chased his brother through the whole Citadel, and now she was glad that she had committed the directions to memory as she followed them in the nearly complete darkness of the night.

There she was... she breathed deeply to steady her hand, hoping that he would be even there, or that she would not find him with another woman in his bed, and pressed down the handle silently, peeking into the starlit, quiet room. She quickly slid in and closed the door behind her, taking in the shadows of furniture as to avoid them for a moment, then moving on to the only passage she could see, and listening intently before she entered the next room.

Even here, nothing was to be heard but deep, slow breaths, a sound she had become painfully familiar with in the last months, and she smiled softly before she shed her cloak and approached his bed. In the dim light from the window, she could only make out his sleeping form under the blankets, and she softly reached out, touching his face, feeling him react and move under her fingers. “Arnuilas...”, he murmured, and she smiled softly as she slid under the blankets... maybe... maybe he would notice what he had with her, would remember it in days to come... maybe. Just maybe. And maybe she would remember his warmth and his presence and his smell in those dark times to come...

She was not sure if he was truly awake or not as he pulled her closer, nestled his nose into her neck, taking deep breaths inhaling her scent, then softly kissing the skin under his lips, but she relished in the feeling nevertheless, sighing with contentment.

“ What are you doing here?”, he finally whispered into her ear after he had nibbled on her skin until she was sure she would sport a love bite tomorrow, and had obviously waken up in the process. She settled on the truth, as anything else would sound impossible, and smiled though she was sure he could not see it. 

“ I have missed you.”

“ As I have you.”

She could clearly feel the evidence of it pressing into her body as his fingers sunk into her hair to draw her near for a proper kiss, and she could feel her own desire rise, though it was a bittersweet feeling... she knew even now that she would miss not only his ministrations, but also his presence, his smell, the way his fingers stroked over her bare skin... she pushed back that thought harshly, tried to banish it into the depths of her soul, but doubted her success. Every touch, every kiss, every caress awoke the fear of losing him again, together with her longing, and she pressed into him, willing herself to feel all of him, to enjoy his bare skin under her fingers, follow the contour of every muscle she could trace.

He seemed to react to her melancholy, or maybe he was just tired, because his movements were more gentle, not as rushed as usual as he kissed her lips, her jaw, her temples, threaded his fingers through her hair. She smiled up to him in the darkness, secure in the knowledge that he could not see the tenderness in her eyes, the tears that threatened to fill them quite unexpectedly.

“ I am glad that you are here,” he murmured softly into her ear and she could feel his deep voice rumble from his chest as her own heart leaped at hearing those words from him, though she knew that the glow would not last until dawn.

She smiled as she softly bit his neck, tasted the salt on his skin, then moaned softly as he touched her, his caresses slow and deliberate, just as his movements when he stripped off her dress. There was no doubt about him being fully awake now, because though his voice still carried the undertones of sleep, his hands and fingers showed that he knew what he wanted, and, even more importantly, that he knew what she wanted. He held her close, his arms comforting her, providing her with the welcome illusion that he would never leave her, and she relished the feeling of her skin touching his as she writhed and moaned until they both rested on the sheets, exhausted, and she had made herself comfortable in his arms with no intention to leave soon.

 

_ July the 1 _ _ st _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

The bright summer sun warmed them both as they walked through the gardens of Minas Tirith, arm in arm, talking and laughing, and Arnuilas relished the feeling. She had missed him during their long trek south, not only his presence, but the ease she felt when she was with him, their strolls, their casual conversations about everything and nothing, from their respective homelands to his intense dislike for strawberries. But even here, in the gardens, surrounded by Elves from Lothlórien and Imladris who had come outside to find nature in this city of stone, she could not relax completely.

That was made painfully clear to her when his arm tensed under her fingers and she followed his gaze to the entrance of the gardens, where Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor, had just appeared. Boromir's reaction surprised her. He had always spoken with love and respect of his brother, and since they had come to Minas Tirith, she had daily been witness to their affection. So what had happened? Had they quarrelled?

Whatever it was, she did not intend to pry, and dropped Boromir's arm to excuse herself, but he caught her hand before she could step away. “Stay, please.”

She raised her eyebrows in question, but there was not time for him to answer, for Faramir had reached them already, and bowed before her.

Surprised by this greeting, she curtseyed in reply, afraid that she would not meet the standards the Gondorian ladies at Elessar's court set, but Faramir only smiled, and without condescension. “So we meet at last.”

It was only then that she understood why Boromir had held her back, and she felt her heart swell at the realization. He had wanted to introduce her to his brother, the Steward. “We do. I have heard much of you from your brother.”

He laughed. “Only good, I hope?”

Boromir had the grace to look faintly ashamed, as she remembered the stories he had told her about their childhood pranks, some of them rather embarrassing, and she suppressed a grin. “I think it was only the entertaining he told me of, but there was also much good among it.”

Faramir laughed. “Then I suppose I must make do with that.”

Before she – or Boromir – could answer, his mien sobered, and he took up her hand softly. “I must thank you, Arnuilas of Arnor.”

She nodded quietly. “Please, do not. Caring for your brother was my duty.”

“ Tending to his wounds may have been, but putting your life at stake for his certainly was not, and I am most grateful. Without your strength and determination, he would be dead now... indeed, I had already thought him dead when I found the boat with his things and his broken sword in the Anduin.”

She sighed. “Would that I had sunk it then, instead of sending it down the river, for I would have spared you much grief that way.”

“ My joy at seeing my brother ride into Minas Tirith alive far surpasses any grief you might have brought me; if there is anything the Steward of Gondor can do for you, you shall have it, and at once.”

She smiled, but she shook her head as she did so. “The generous welcome you and your people have given me and mine is more than enough. Any more, and I would feel spoiled after camping in the wilds for so long!”

Faramir laughed, sensing her need to close the topic, and gestured for them to follow the path again, and Arnuilas complied with a smile, taking up Boromir's arm again. That he had arranged – and their meeting was obviously arranged – for her to meet his brother, who surely was busy in his new role as Steward of Gondor – was a great honour, and part of her... part of her wished that it meant more than only an opportunity for him to thank the woman who had saved his brother.  _ But was it? _

 

_ July the 3 _ _ rd _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

Boromir was called to see his King a few days later, but he could not fault him for the delay. He was a newly wed man, and one that, besides spending time with his bride, had other obligations that required his time, particularly the ordering of his kingdom and the re-establishing of the rule of Elendil's heirs in Gondor – the fate of a lowly steward's son could easily escape his attention.

When former, he would have thought that with disdain and bitterness, by now, it only left a mild irritation, even as he bowed deeply as Elessar stood behind his study's desk to greet him. It was not the room his father had used for as long as Boromir could remember, and he was glad for it... some of the memories that assaulted him in the high halls of the Citadel were still painful, reminding him of the man he had once loved and would never see again. When he had set out to see Rivendell, he had feared that it was him who rode into danger, not that madness would strike in the White City itself, taking away Denethor, to whom Boromir had always looked up as the wisest man he knew.

“ Stand, Boromir.”

He did, and faced the dark eyes of King Elessar, boring into his with an intensity that finally convinced him that this man was of the noble blood of Westernesse, just as his father had been, for his gaze reminded him of Denethor's very much.

“ What is it that you desire of me, my King?”

Elessar did not speak immediately, but instead motioned for him to sit, which he did, and took his place himself, then, finally, began, “Why?”

The peace of the days before had lured him into carelessness, and for a moment, he struggled to understand what it was that Elessar asked of him, until the full force of his betrayal hit him again and he swallowed harshly. “Why? That is both an easy and a very difficult question, My King.” He shook his head, stared out over the city and the fields under it, bathed in the bright, golden summer sun for a moment to buy him time, then pulled himself together. This was not worthy of him – for so long had he known what he had done, it was time to face the consequences he had been dreading since the day he woke up in the cellar under the falls of Rauros.

“ We... both of us have fought for as long as we can remember, though I think it was different for me, who had a home to return to, than for you, who lived in the wilds with your people, despised by those who you tried to protect. You know this feeling, do you not? That, just as you have ridden into battle since your earliest days, you would continue to do so until your hands grew too feeble to hold a sword, that this cursed war against an overbearing enemy would take up all of your years, even if you did not perish at the blade of an Orc or Southling. It is... a wretched thought, that there would be nothing in store for you than endless years of battle without victory, only hoping to hold the darkness at bay, never drive it back into the mountains where it had come from. 

As long as I was in Gondor, fighting, but also seeing the crowds cheer, bathing in the feeling that I was a hero, I could hold this gloom within me at bay. I had the constant proof that my cause was a worthy one, that every girl and boy I saw playing in the streets could be dead yet if I did not fight with all my strength, all my force... but when I rode north, through the loneliness of the deserted lands between Gondor and Rivendell, I felt desperation creep up inside me... mind, it was not the persuasion of the Ring that lured me to think so, not at the beginning. It was my own weakness instead, a weakness that it found and exploited, feeding me with ideas of its power, power that I could use, could direct to defeat my enemy. At first, I shook off those silly notions. A strong man, with a good sword – why should he need Elven witchcraft?

But then, as my fear grew... it began to weigh heavy on my thoughts, drawing me closer and closer until in my desperation, after seeing Minas Tirith fall and fall and fall every night, I tried to seize it... so I could use it, so I could save my people... our people.”

He swallowed, and Elessar leaned forward, his voice a mere whisper. “But there was more to it, was it not?”

He closed his eyes... pressed them tightly together in the hope that he would not see what he knew lay there, in his heart, and that he did not have to confess it. It was of no use, just a childish idea that tried to deny what he had already seen in those long nights of idleness, when he could not sleep and had entirely too much time to think. “It was. But... I hope that is over now.”

“ What is over now?”

“ It was not only the thought of saving Minas Tirith that... that drove me to seek to attain the Ring.” It was out... but he did not feel better, as he had expected. Every word that followed became harder and harder to speak, each of it chipping away a little bit of his pride until he felt naked and vulnerable without it. “I... for so long, I have... I have longed to lay claim to the crown that you now wear... I have loathed to see the throne deserted and my father's stool before it, knowing... knowing that it would be my place, and not... and not the seat under the canopy... never. I wanted it... I wanted it so much... and yet it would not have been enough for me... I wanted to win this war... to end it in a great, decisive battle that would win me glory worthy of a King... the glory that is now yours, after you have led the Host of the West to the Gates of Mordor.” He had nearly spat the last words out through gritted teeth, and forced himself to unclench his jaw so he could speak further. “I could see myself returning from battle, the banners of my enemy carried with me as my trophies, my armour shining white in the morning sun, the people of Minas Tirith, shouting and cheering, calling out that I would be their King, that for what I have done, I should be elevated... elevated beyond the mere rank of a Steward... and I wanted it. I wanted all... all that the Ring could offer me, and after so many days, I could think of little else than that...” He drew in a deep breath and then exhaled heavily. “... until I found myself on the ground of the wood, and had seen Frodo shy away from me in fear, and I understood that all fame and glory in the world could not restore my honour to me.”

He stared on the polished wood of the desk, neither willing nor able to meet Elessar's eyes until he heard his voice again, voice laced with austerity, but also with kindness.

“ And what now?”

“ Now I have seen that I have never been meant to be King, and never will be, and not even Steward. There are others better suited to those tasks.”

The admission hurt, more than when he had made it to Galadriel, more even than a few nights before when he had spoken to his brother, and yet it had to be said, so that he could show that at least he had understood the depth of his treachery.

“ I know very well that little love has always been lost between us, and that, from that first day in Elrond's council, you have despised me for the claim I lay to the throne of Gondor, a claim that, and do not be mistaken, I was aware of that, would take precedence to that of your line.” He grit his teeth and looked up into Elessar's dark face, and he could not erase the trace of defiance that still lingered in his eyes despite the way he had demeaned himself. “What you have not known is that I, just as those of Elendil's blood that have come before me, was determined only to take this crown after I have proven myself worthy of it in the eyes of the people of Gondor.”

“ And you have.” Boromir's admission had been quietly made, but nevertheless it had, and Elessar smiled for the first time, though tightly.

“ I have, but you have proven yourself a worthy man too, Boromir. Few of your rank and status would have admitted what you confessed today, and I am proud to call a man such as you friend, even though you still believe my words were for the crowd around rather than you. I am well aware that your claim to the office of Steward precedes that of your brother, and, no matter what you have said before, I would prepared to accept you as ruler in my stead in my absence if you wish to take up the staff.”

Now that the office he had longed for even when his father was alive presented to him, he was surprised to feel himself shy away from it, as if it was better not to tempt a man again that had already resisted. “No, my King. As I have told you, my brother will make a better Steward than I could ever be. Even though I have been raised for this high office, in my heart, I have always been a soldier, and I will always be. I am not made to sit idly in a city of stone, taking councils from men that will bore me with matters beyond my understanding, no matter how hard I try to focus on them. No, I am most happy with a group of men – good, strong men, seasoned in battle – and a mission to accomplish. Give this to me, and I will serve you far better with my sword than with my wit.”

Elessar smiled, again, more natural this time, with genuine warmth in his eyes, warmth that Boromir had never seen trained towards him in the long months they had travelled together. “Then there will be nothing for me but to find you such a band of warriors for you, and send you out with them; for do not be mistaken, Boromir, the days of battle are not over yet, and it will be many years until you will find yourself without occupation. You will not have to ride out immediately, though – your brother will be wed soon, and even after that blessed event, you are free to stay in Minas Tirith as long as you would like until you feel the need to take up your sword again.”

The words did not sink in immediately, and only after he had thought about them, he realized that he had been granted his wish, that he would be sent out again, and he smiled. “Then I thank you, My King. Your wisdom goes beyond what I have heard of before.”


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Tempers

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Eighteen: Tempers**

_ July the 10 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

Boromir stared out over the sun-bathed gardens of Minas Tirith, his gaze frequently grazing the woman that walked under the lush trees, then turned around to ascend the few steps that led to the battlements on top of the wall of the sixth level of the city, searching for the glittering river in the hazy summer air. That he tried not to pay attention to Arnuilas was, by now, only a move to fool others, and not himself. After she had come to him, had even admitted that she had missed him, though her words might have been meant in a purely physical way, he could no longer keep up the disguise of indifference, not even in the guarded recesses of his heart. He... might even love her, though he was not sure enough of his feelings to know, but he definitely cared, and he did not want to lose her... ever.

His actions had spoken of his newly found conviction – he had gone back to walking with her, talking, smiling and laughing, had shown her the city he loved so deeply, or had simply sat with her in the shade of the old trees, thinking of the days they had spent under the golden mellyrn. Who could find fault with a few innocent walks? He did not think anyone would... and even if... marriage to a woman like her was not the most daunting prospect he had ever encountered, especially compared to the simpering girls he often met in the street, stifling their giggles and blushes when they saw him.

Whatever he thought about this matter, Arnuilas seemed blissfully unaware that their behaviour could be inducing whispers about them... from all he could discern, she did not act differently than in Lórien when they had, besides the Elves, who, frankly, cared little for the affairs of mortals, been practically alone. She smiled at him, she laughed with him, she teased him, and her fingers often found his arm in a way that, at least he hoped, seemed casual to the unknowing observer, but frequently reminded him of the pleasures they had shared.

“ Brother.”

He turned, and saw Faramir approach him, his mien cloudy in a way that did not reflect the joyful twittering of the birds and the bright rays of sunlight streaming over the lush green lawn. “Faramir. What is it that concerns you so?”

His brother did not answer immediately, but instead chose to join him at the battlements in his observation of the city first, his hesitation about broaching the subject he has obviously come to talk to about him obvious. Finally, when Boromir thought his anxiety would get the better of him, making him say something impatient and stupid, Faramir took a deep, fortifying breath and then  spoke. “People are starting to talk.”

He flinched, though he quickly caught himself and steadied his mien into something neutral again; but his reaction had not been lost to his brother, who now started to frown. “About what, Faramir?”

“ About you.”

This time, only his jaw clenched as he stared out unseeingly into the hot summer air, feeling the presence of his brother next to him, a presence that, although welcome at most other times, now felt threatening – threatening to the illusion he had built up for himself and, though she did not know about it, also for Arnuilas. 

“ What do you mean?” he finally asked, when it became increasingly clear to him that Faramir would not continue of his own volition, and he heard his brother sigh deeply – it was only then that he noticed how defensive and clipped he had sounded.

“ You do know that I do not enjoy to point out the things you have not noticed yourself to you, Boromir. I am concerned for you, and have been since you returned from that infamous trip that nearly killed you, and more than once.” The annoyance had now also crept in Faramir's voice, and he chastised himself inwardly for thinking that his brother of all people would criticise him. Well... he guessed that Faramir was entirely capable of doing so, and would in the course of this conversation, but he meant it for the best – and should be able to do so without getting snapped at. 

“ Yes, I realize that.” His voice still wasn't perfectly calm and kind, but then again, he was not a saint, and trying to give his best. “I am sorry, please continue.”

His apology had taken the sting out of the moment, and Faramir seemed relieved, though not completely at ease, choosing a different path to broach the subject he wanted to speak of. “You have slept with her, have you not?”

Maybe Faramir's decision had not been the best, because Boromir fiercely grit his teeth, only unclenching his jaw when he felt that he could reply in a tone that not the whole garden including the woman in question could overhear. “What do you know of?”

He could see Faramir roll his eyes. “You might not be aware of it, brother, but I know at least one of the parties involved very intimately – and I have seen you with a lot of women. She is comfortable with you in a way that speaks of more than a passing acquaintance, and you reciprocate the feeling.”

“ She has saved my life, and we have spent weeks in our sole company. I should hope that she is comfortable with me.”

Faramir just turned and gave him a look that made him resemble their father more closely than Boromir cared for, a knowing look... one that told him that his denying did him no good. “Fine.” It was as far as he would go towards admitting to his brother what had happened between them, exposing his behaviour to his censure, and set his forehead in that stubborn line he thought he had not used since he had been fifteen.

Faramir obviously noticed and responded with a frown of his own, but did not comment on it, instead venturing ahead into the uncharted waters between them. “What I have noticed and what others have are two different things, but you have drawn attention when you returned here, not claiming the office that is yours by right. That you spend so much time with a woman wholly unknown to the society of Minas Tirith, one you have met in your travels north, has incited additional suspicion, and you know how people are. Their imagination is quick to think of an attachment.”

Boromir did not answer, but even without encouragement, his brother was still inclined to speak his mind. 

“ They are talking about you, about an impeding engagement, though I think she is still unaware of that, spending her time with her people as she usually does. So the burden of reacting to that situation lies with you.”

His thoughts raced, but he did not know what to say, what to do, as all of them tried to take different turns at the same time and he thought he could not follow them.

“ Brother?” Faramir had turned from observing the lands beneath them to face him. “What are you going to do?”

He shrugged. “I do not know; but I will not force her into an alliance she does not want, and when she returns north, all of this will not matter. It will be only a piece of gossip that is quickly forgotten.”

“ How do you know that she would not accept your hand?”

“ I know her, Faramir; I have known her for so long, and I doubt that she would give up her independence to be bound to any man, much less one like me.” The realization, intruding upon him as he had already spoken of it to his brother, hurt, and deeply, but he just clenched his jaw and set his mouth into a firm line, determined not to show too much of his trouble, not even to his brother, and much less to the world that threatened to intrude upon their solitude. 

“ Now you only doubt, and do not know. I tell you, brother, I have seen the way you look at her, and at her only. You would be foolish to throw away what fate has bestowed on you. Can you tell me that you do not love her?” He stared at him for a moment, waiting for a reply, and only continuing when none came forth. “No, you cannot, because you do, brother. If there is only the tiniest chance of her accepting you, it is worth the risk. You have said that she is to return north soon, so there is nothing you have to lose. Would you throw away your happiness only because you are too afraid to ask her? Is your pride truly worth losing her?”

Boromir turned away, not willing to look his brother, who spoke with so much passion, so much feeling, in the eye, but a heavy hand on his shoulder turned him back to face him. “I am to marry a woman who was in love with another, and I knew of it. I thought that there was no chance of her accepting me, and yet I asked her, because I love her with all of my heart, and could not bear the thought of losing her, could not stand by when she was sad and crying, and I can tell you, she is worth all of that, and more, because I love her. Do you truly think that your lady is not worth as much as mine?”

“ She is not my lady, and would strongly object to being called such.” He sounded petulant, and more, knew it, so he tried to take a more dignified stance. “It would be folly, Faramir. She might sleep with me willingly, but she will not give me more than that, and certainly not her hand.”

They had reached an impasse, neither of them willing to retreat, and both knew it – though they were very different men, their stubbornness was one of the few common traits they shared, besides their affection, and they both knew from whom they had inherited it.

“ Fine.” Faramir stepped back, taking his hand off Boromir's shoulder and nodding to him. “But at least think about it, brother.”

Boromir nodded, though reluctantly – in truth, he suspected that he would not be able to stop pondering what his brother had told him, and was sure that it would torment him for many a night after it – and then turned to continue watching her from the corner of his eye, even more diligent than before in avoiding suspicion.

 

_ July the 14 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

It turned out that his presumption had been correct, for he scarcely slept the next nights, thinking and mulling, and only managed to find rest on the one evening she slid into his quarters again, when he could press his nose into her hair and inhale her lovely scent, and his hands found her sleeping form in his arms. Did he love her? Truly love her? He knew not... yes, his brother had told him that he did, but he was the one to know his feelings best, was he not?

He frowned and turned in his cold, lonely bed, trying to keep himself from missing her too much with the sobering thought that she would not risk to join him only a night after their last encounter, though wanting her so badly surely was a sign that he was, if not in love, then at least strongly attracted to her.

He had not told his brother the most compelling reason for not proposing to Arnuilas, for he still had not told her about the Ring and his guilt. He might be using her, and using her badly, though she did not seem to mind, but he would not shackle her to a man who was so weak that he could neither withstand the lures of power, nor was strong enough to confess it to her. Sooner or later, he would have to – and until now, it had always been rather later than sooner, at the risk that she would one day storm into his rooms and demand an explanation from him. That had not happened yet, however, and so she still seemed to be blissfully unaware of his dreadful weakness, a weakness that was not made better or absolved by his confessing it to King Elessar. The one who had, perhaps, the most right to know of it... her, he had not told, and he feared that with every day he put it off, the chance of losing her completely would only heighten.

Well... if that happened, at least he would not have to decide if he should truly propose marriage to her... and for the moment, the very real chance of one rejection did not make him desire another opportunity, in the unlikely event of him surviving the first in one piece. He still vividly remembered their last, heated argument, and how forceful a person she could be when truly enraged – and he did not doubt that the hot fire of her anger would then flare so much higher than that last time.

Nevertheless... it had to be done, and after a sleepless night, thinking of every possibility of how he could tell her, how he could confess his treachery, not only towards Frodo, but also towards her, when the grey light of dawn approached, he rose and dressed. The feeling of dread did not leave him as he walked the still quiet streets of Minas Tirith until he reached the house where she lived with some of the other Rangers. It was early, but he knew that she did sleep neither long nor good, with the possible exception of those nights when he held her in his arms, and so he was not surprised when she opened the door to him, smiling.

The sight of it clenched his heart, because he knew that soon, she would not be looking at him so tenderly, and that it might be the last time to see her delicate lips curl for him. “Arnuilas.”

His voice must have sounded sombre, because her smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared when she picked up his dismal mood. “Come in.”

She moved away from the door so he could slide in, then closed it behind him and led him into the empty living room that had been given to her sole use, hearth cold in the heat of the summer, and he reached out. He could not help himself, but even as he knew that it was possibly the worst thing he could do, at that moment, at this junction, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close, kissing her in the knowledge that it could very well be the last time that he felt her tall, lean body pressed against his.

From her startled look when he finally loosened his grip around her, she was surprised by his near desperate ferocity, but did not comment, instead motioning for them to sit next to the window overlooking the city, through which they could see the early, pinkish glow of the approaching sunrise.

When he did not speak instantly, he could feel the awkwardness rise between them, unusual considering their previous ease with each other, and forced his hands to still in his lap so they would not betray his nervousness, though he suspected Arnuilas had noticed it already. “I... there is something I... I must speak of to you.”

It was out, he could not draw back now, but he did not feel relieved for it as she tilted her head, not giving away what she thought or felt at his unusual introduction, and he forced the words out before his courage could fail him, telling her all... all that he had spoken of to Aragorn, all that he had to confess, though in front of her, it hurt so much more. His pride, together with his self-esteem, had already been injured, but that was a wound he had learned to bear by now; his fear was worse, harder to contain, harder to ignore as it raised its ugly head with every word he spoke, with every crease on her forehead, with every clenching of her teeth he could see before he made himself stop, speaking to her hands instead. At least  _ they _ remained motionless, not giving away what inner turmoil she might feel at his revelations, handing him no clue as to how she took his treachery. With shock? Disdain? Hatred? Anger? Pain? He knew not, and part of him did not want to know, wanted to ignore it, wanted to keep off that moment when he had to look up into her beautiful face and see that he had lost her forever, but he could not. “I... I do not know what to say any more except... I am so sorry.”

He could hear her take a deep breath and finally mustered the courage to face her, only to feel the strong urge to turn away as soon as he had looked into her eyes; they burned with hot, seething anger, but when she spoke, her voice was dreadfully calm, though he supposed the storm would follow soon. “I would have vastly preferred to hear this from your mouth first, instead of Haldir's, and a lot sooner, too.”

It was an undignified reaction, but one he could not help – his jaw dropped, and in the time he needed to regain his ability to utter complete sentences, she continued, in clipped tones that now, as she spoke more, betrayed her anger not only in her air, but also her voice. “I have nursed you for so long – and yet, not a word. Only incoherent mutterings about your debt and your treachery, and that it might have been better had you not survived. I was afraid, Boromir – frightened that you would do something unbelievably stupid in those first days, when you were weak as a kitten, and I too tired to think straight!”

She had stood now, her voice growing more and more agitated with every word she spoke, with every angry pace that he knew so well – only now he could not pull her into his arms and kiss her, because it would be the worst thing possible to do. “Foolish man.” She glared at him, hands on her hips, before she resumed her restless steps. “Even when I was finally convinced that you would not drown yourself in that damned river, or just open up your wounds again and bleed out while I slept, I was worried for you. And then not only you, but Haldir began making his insupportable insinuations, until he finally told me that the people of Lórien could not trust you, and that I had to come with you to vouch for you, or they would not allow you to enter their lands.”

She stood for a moment, while he felt like an utter fool and could not even bring himself to stand, to meet her fiery gaze from above instead of beneath.

“ Do you know how much I longed for battle, after nursing you for so long, after feeling so utterly useless? And yet I came with you – what else could I have done. They would have left you out to die from your wounds, or get killed by the attacking Orcs! I could not let that happen – and I was even noble enough not to burden you with the thought of being an encumbrance to me, and did not tell you a word. In hindsight I wish that I had – maybe then, you would have spoken. Or not? Are you so much of a coward, that you would not even have told me, had you known that I put my life at stake for you – again?”

She had stopped in front of him, brow furrowed into one single, angry line, her nostrils flaring when she breathed deeply to try containing her anger at him enough to continue, not giving him a chance to answer her purely rhetorical question... and even if, he had no idea what to say, how to defend himself in the face of his debt towards her that had become even greater now that he knew of her vouching for him, of her saving his life again.

“ Maybe you would have, maybe not – it is of no importance now. At the latest when you slept with me you should have told me – do you think I have not wondered why you were so eager to load all the guilt in the world on your shoulders after our first night? But I doubt that you have thought much then, and nothing at all of anyone besides you. After all, you are a selfish man.”

That hurt – more than anything she had said before, especially as he knew that he owed her so much, and had always wanted to pay it back. But that was the problem... he had  _ wanted _ to, and only wanted, always finding a reason why he could put off doing his duty to her while he still added to it – in the end being too selfish to forego his pleasure for the  _ right _ thing, and that was breaking things off with her even before they had started, and instead concentrating on serving her. But he could not... he could not, because he loved her, and loved her even more than before, knowing that even after all his faults had been laid open to her, she had stayed at his side. She had understood what he had done, what despicable kind of man he was, and yet... yet she had not fled, but instead cared for him.

He swallowed harshly at the realization that should have come the moment Faramir tried to set his thoughts to rights, because then, he could have changed something... now, the only thing he could do was watch how everything he could have had ran through his fingers. It was his own foolishness... his own denial, his wish to avoid thinking of what he already knew, of acting on the feelings he had cherished for so long now, but never acknowledged. He loved her – loved her more than his own life, or indeed, even more than his honour, considering the way he had acted towards her... and yet, he could not tell her now... now that she hated him, stared at him with such obvious disdain and anger.

“ I am sorry.”

She turned at his words, but her movement seemed rather more startled than angry. “For your selfishness? I think you are not.”

She could have sounded scathing, could have torn his heart apart, but instead, she just seemed tired, and that impression was even strengthened when he saw her fall onto a chair next to him heavily. “We all are selfish in the end, Boromir, but I think you have driven this feeling to new heights.”

“ Why?” He forced the one word out, and she turned to face him.

“ Why? Do I truly have to explain to you how selfishly you have acted? I had hoped that by now, you might have understood that yourself.”

“ No... no, obviously, I do not understand my own heart.” His anger rose again, quicker than he could repress it, and it showed in his words until he noticed and tried to force the feeling back into the depths of his soul where it belonged... the dark part that he had, rather unwisely, ignored for the better part of his life. “But neither do I understand yours. Why did you stay with me, after you knew what I had done? Why have you not abandoned me, recoiled at my depravity?”

“ And why should I? I have guarded the Shire for so long, Boromir – do you think I have not felt the Ring's pull, its promises of strength and power to protect my people? It was hard to resist, even though so many miles parted me from it – how could I judge you, who have spent so much time so much nearer to it?” She stared at him with those tired eyes that explained why the passion of her words sounded sullied and repressed. “I have told you once, and I will tell you again, Boromir, though reluctantly: You are a good man. I am not oblivious to your faults, to your pride and your officiousness, as well as your selfish tendencies, but they matter less than your goodness and your strength, or at least I have thought so for the better part of our acquaintance.”

He could feel himself stare at her, and only then he found out that in all his endeavours to prepare himself for his thorough humiliation at her hands before she discarded him like the worthless man he felt himself to be at that moment, he had never formed a plan of how to react if she should not be disgusted by him. Never had he believed she could hold any regard at all for him after his confession... he had no plan, no idea what to do, now, in this mess he had made both of his actions and his feelings.

She had forced him to admit what he felt, and yet, he knew not what to do – he felt that there was hope for them yet, but he knew not how to react to it, how to build something between them instead of destroy. He felt terrified, not only by his feelings, but also by the possibilities that opened up for him – for them – at this moment. When he had thought of being with her, even of marrying her, it had always been as something that he deemed impossible, or maybe something far away that could happen, and not as imminent and close. Yes, he loved her – but what was the meaning of this feeling, what was the conclusion that followed to his confessing it, at least in the deep recesses of his own mind. Did love truly lead to marriage? Or could it be that this feeling would disperse, annihilate between their strong wills and characters that were, in so many aspects, too much alike to harmonize?

She sighed heavily. “I will ride then.”

Her quiet words startled him and he opened his eyes to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“ I will return north. I have already spoken to Aragorn, and he has told me that he will travel soon, to lay King Théoden of Rohan to rest in Edoras, but I think I will not take up his offer of accompanying him. Lingering will not do us any good.”

His thoughts raced – just when he had concluded that there could be hope, that he only had to grasp the straw of his affection for her, though he knew not if he truly had the strength to do so, affection that might even be reciprocated, she told him that she would go, that maybe, he would not see her again. She could not! “You cannot.”

Only when she stared at him and that frown he hated reappeared on her brow, he found that he had spoken out aloud, and his mind scrambled for a possible reason why she could not.

“ Please enlighten me, Boromir, why can I not take a horse and my bow and do what I have always done for the last twenty years; travel on my own, and look out for myself, and for myself only?”

He spoke the first words that came to his mind, while still trying to absorb the blow that she had delivered with her cool, pointed answer. “How should I repay my debt to you then, if you are to go and never to return? I owe you my life.”

“ You do not, Boromir.” Her voice sounded crisp and angry, the fire in her eyes rekindled by his unthinkingly spoken words. “You have seen the Dúnedain from the North; many of these men share your debt, and yet they do not feel duty bound to save me only because I have tended to their wounds, which is my task, and has always been that of a healer. It would be different if I had put my life at risk to save theirs, but I have not.”

“ But you have done that for me – you could have left me behind and fled the Orcs that were pursuing us.”

“ Do you truly think me so dishonourable that I could be capable of such a deed? I would have thought that you know me better, after all those months in my company.”

He turned, surprised at her words, as he had not wanted to slight her with his - again. “I do not...” She had driven him into retreat, and he sighed heavily. “After all those months I am convinced that you are the best woman I have ever met in my life.”

“ Do you say that because you think so, or do you feel yourself duty-bound to flatter me? It is a strange way, to pay your debt, but no stranger than taking me into your bed. Did you think that fitting for it, too, that you pay back with the body I have healed?” She seemed sickened at the notion.

Boromir closed his eyes, feeling that her words hat cut deeply, and more so than he had ever thought her capable of. “I have not...”

She laughed bitterly. “You have not? You have not what? Slept with me? That would be a ridiculous thing to say, considering the fact that my memories are quite clear.”

He swallowed harshly, clenching his fists to find a way to channel all his anger and pain. “I have not intended it to be so... I have rather thought that my using you added to my debt, and not diminished it.”

“ Your using me? Foolish man. How often do I have to tell you that what happened between us was just as much my doing as it was yours. I am not a pretty toy to be discarded as soon as your use or interest for me expires.”

“ I have never considered you such.” He was in the defensive again, and he knew that this was not the most advantageous position, but he could think of no way to escape her accusations – especially because a considerable part of them had been true. 

“ Have you not?” She glared at him coolly, her hot anger now burning lower, but not less fierce for it. “That would have been a remarkably quick change from your usual patterns of thought. Do you think I have not noticed how surprised you were to see a woman saving you, and how used you are to take every hint of responsibility off my shoulders and onto yours, except those that suit you? I was capable of saving your life so you can feel guilty for laying that pressure on my shoulders, but not of choosing whom to spend the night with? Please, do not be ridiculous.”

He stared at her, incredulous at that charge she laid at his feet, but only for a moment – then he recognized the truth behind it, the selfishness of his behaviour, and of his treatment of her, and he shook his head. It hurt. It hurt so much that could not take it any more, and he stood abruptly, though he knew that fleeing now would only make him feel worse later... but he could not stay here, look at her, knowing that every word she said would only unmask the pretty, though entirely untrue picture he had painted of himself and his character further... and so he stood, so abruptly that the chair behind him tumbled, and left, slamming the door to her chambers loudly on his way out.


	20. Chapter Nineteen: The Road Taken

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Nineteen: The Road Taken**

_ July the 14 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

Her fury disappeared with its object, and as soon as she could hear the front door of the house slam, the tears that her anger had kept at bay before threatened to spill over on her cheeks. Foolish man indeed – but he was not the only fool in their argument. She had been misguided as well, and she sighed heavily as she stared out in the beautiful morning sky, glowing in the brightest tones of pink and orange.

Yes, he had neglected to tell her what he had done in regards to the Ring – but, as she had so succinctly pointed out, two were needed for such a decided lack of communication. It might be his fault that he had not told her on his own volition, but it was her fault that, after she had known, she had not asked him what had happened, or even if that what Haldir had told her was even true. In his obvious dislike for Boromir, she should at least have considered the possibility of his lying to her, and that it his tale was now confirmed to be the truth did not make her behaviour less despicable.

She had been both remarkably quick to believe the worst of him, and very willing to put the matter aside, to protect the relationship they had instead of finding out what was the matter with him and discovering the truth both in his sadness and guilt and the accusations thrown at him.

But why? What had she been afraid of, that she had willingly closed her eyes to the truth, or rather, the possibility of finding it in this confused affair? What was it that she had to lose... what, except his regard. Was it truly so important to her that he looked at her favourably that she was willing to stay with a man that could very well be immoral, or even vile and evil?

In short, why had her feelings overruled both her good sense and her natural caution? She swallowed. There was only one answer to that... that her regard for him was so great that it made all those other considerations unimportant, at least in comparison. That she loved him so that she cared not for all those faults of his she had enumerated before, that they were less important than the fact that she cared for him, and deeply.

She had called him a good man before, despite their vicious quarrel, despite the things he had confessed to her, despite his undeniable tendencies to think her – and every other woman – inferior to him, not to forget his high-handedness and pride. And it was true, at least in her eyes – she knew that he was a good, honourable man, one was worth knowing, one who would defend those he loved with all the strength he commanded. And he was the man she loved...

She had always known his faults, had seen those traits in him that made her grit her teeth, or frown at him, acutely, and even though that keen awareness had never changed in the time of their acquaintance, she had, sometime, somehow, began to love him. Unfortunately, that realization had come too late to moderate her words, words that must have hurt not only him, but also his pride, and keenly. As she had spoken them she had seen how they hit him and cut deeply, had seen the pain in his features, and had, in her vicious anger and fear, relished in the sight of it – or at least the part that was angry because he had not sought her trust, had not confided in him, had.

Now she regretted her words, designed, though unconsciously, to hurt him the most, and the tears welled up again in her eyes. Her contrition not only stemmed from the knowledge that she had done wrong and that he had been injured through her words and actions, but also from her fear that what they had had before, and what could have come from it – the very reason why she had contended to let things run their own course for so long – was now beyond reach. Would he truly want to see such a vile creature as herself again? She doubted it... and even if, it did not mean that it would be wise to continue.

Their quarrel had only heightened all her concerns about their future, about her future, and had shown her that it would be best to break things off as soon as possible... and that she would do. She would ride north and forget him, not only think about doing so, but putting it off again, and now was a good time for it... she would feel fewer regrets knowing that they had parted ways in anger, would not dwell on what she could have had because she decided to forfeit her rights instead of losing them in the most painful way imaginable. Some day, he would realize that there were other woman that were interested in him, and then his regard, which, in all likelihood, stemmed from her being the one who had saved his life and then cared for him would vanish, leaving her... with nothing, only pain and agony. No, it was better to decide herself than be decided, so she could still claim that she was mistress of her own destiny, as she had always been, and so she would go.

Aragorn's asking her to accompany him had given her an easy excuse to put off her departure even longer, and maybe she would have found another and another when the time had come, to stay in his company like a lovestruck girl and not like the woman she was. No... surely it was for the best to go, and go as soon as possible. She had a whole day for her preparations, to say goodbye to her friends and kin in Minas Tirith, take her leave of all the beautiful places he had shown her, and then depart on the morrow at the break of dawn.

No inconvenience for anyone but herself, and nobody would miss her. A plan, nice and neat. She would return home, visit with her family, play with her nieces and nephews, and then return to the wilds where she belonged, protecting those who could not take care of themselves. And she would be happy... or at least that was her resolve.

 

He hastened out on the street, walking unseeingly through the awakening city of Minas Tirith, frantically trying to control the unwanted thoughts that intruded into his mind at every turn. He did not want to think at all, and least of her, or the unpleasant scene he had fled from mere minutes ago, and yet he could not stop himself from pondering it over and over. He hastened over the stone pavement restlessly, replaying their words in his head like a terrible nightmare he could not shake off even in the growing light of the day that made the walls of the city shine in golden light. It was beautiful, but he cared not for it – there was only one kind of beauty that could have moved his heart now, and it was not that of inanimate things, but that of a woman, and one woman only.

He loved her. Now that he was fully aware of his feelings, he could see that the realization had been dawning on him for quite some time, and yet he struggled to wrap his mind around the unknown, unbidden emotions swelling in his chest. He loved her – but when before he would have only felt a slight discomfort at the thought, now that all seemed lost the understanding that should have been joyous threatened to pull him down into the black depths of despair. He loved her... and yet she would be gone, maybe even by tomorrow, and he would never see her again.

_ I cannot let that happen! _ He disregarded the foolish thought as soon as it appeared. Arnuilas was not the type of woman to react well to orders, even from those who had the right to issue them to her, and he was not counted among that illustrious group of people. If he interfered, he would only damage his already slim thoughts of attaining her hand, or at least her affection... and if he followed her, she would notice him at some point of her journey, react with the annoyance and anger he had already seen displayed at what she called out his officiousness. 

He sighed heavily, then placed himself on a bench in the still deserted park, inhaling the wet scent of fresh grass and the first hints of flowery aroma. This would not take him any further – there was nothing he could do, at least nothing he could think of to keep her from leaving him, and it was breaking his heart... hurt more than he cared to admit.

For so long he had taken her presence for granted, and only now when he was about to lose it, he saw what a treasure he had possessed in her smiles, her laughs, her soft fingers caressing his stubbly cheek... he shook his head and swallowed, trying to rid himself of that knot that was forming in his throat and reminded him of tears he had left behind years ago when he had begun to think himself a man. No, he would not cry – not matter how much he loved her and how much he would miss her, he would not succumb to that weakness again.

The day passed in a haze as he tried to act as though nothing had happened while he wanted nothing more than to hide in his chambers, both from the world and any chance encounter with her... he did not know if he could bear to see her. Fortunately, she did not venture into the Citadel, did not dine with the large party gathered there, one of the Rangers making her excuses... though he was not sure if he truly thought her absence convenient, or if he longed to see her so he could thrown himself at her feet and beg her to return to him, to stay with him, or at least to give him a chance to prove that he was not the unworthy cad she thought him to be.

No... he could not do that. His pride stood in his way... but then again, what had his pride ever done for him? It had played a part in leaving him vulnerable to the Ring's seduction, it had precluded him from recognizing his feelings before it was too late, and had, contrarily, made him act in a way that impugned his honour even though his purpose had been the exact opposite. He should not have treated her so – he had acted despicably, and he knew not if he could ever forgive himself for it, let alone hope for her absolution, even in time.

It seemed like this was a purely theoretical consideration now – even if she were to pardon him for his actions in time, he would never learn of it here in the South, far away from the planes she walked or rode, fighting Orcs and vile Men as she had done for so long, before he had even known her.

He raked his fingers through his long, dark hair harshly. He would not... unless he travelled north himself – not following her, of course, as his first, foolish plan hat proposed, but... go there, a few days later, or even a week or two, asking Elessar for a mission that took him there. If he then thought him a love-ridden fool, be it – it was only the truth. He would do everything for her... even leave the city and the people he loved and had protected for all his life, pass his duty on to his brother and his King and venture on to new realms and tasks.

Now that the thought had occurred to him, it gained merit with every second he pondered. People here at Minas Tirith were talking about him, his brother had told him as much... why he had not assumed the office that was rightfully his, what connection he had with that strange, foreign woman from the North, what had he done in the year away... and he was sure that the gossip would not diminish after her departure, only gain ferocity.

Did he truly want to stay in a city ripe with idle chatter about him, full of slander, to whose people his previous merits, his previous valour seemed not to matter in face of his mysterious departure, belated return, and strange treatment by their new, venerated King? He doubted it. As much as he loved Minas Tirith, the tides had changed in the year he had spent far from it, and he found that he longed for the freedom he had enjoyed away from the society he had grown up in. What he had told King Elessar was true – he was happiest with a band of man and a mission far from their borders, because then, he was his own master, and did not have to face the judgement of those who knew him not, and were prepared to slander him on hearsay only, and the woman he loved with him. No... he would not stay – but in truth, the matter was only partially in his hands. He had asked for a mission away from Minas Tirith, but where his King would send him, he knew not.

Surely, Elessar had his own thoughts as to where where he would be of most use, and if that was the North or another place, he could not tell until he received his orders. And... was the rough, empty Arnor truly where he wanted to spend the rest of his live... frankly, he doubted it. He had seen much of that country when he had travelled it, searching for the legendary Elven settlement of Imladris, and it was... untamed and wild, and very, very wide. And lonely.

Thinking of it, it reminded him very much of the woman that hailed from it... though she was immeasurably more beautiful than her homeland. He smiled tightly as he remembered her eyes, the recollection painful as the soft gentleness in them was replaced by her fierce anger even in his thoughts, and he could not shake the picture. She had stayed with him even after she had known of his failures, which, had she expressed it in any other way, would have given him hope, together with the fact that she thought him a good man... and yet now that he had confessed them to her, she wanted to go. He did not understand it, did not understand her, and knew not what to do... but there had to be something he could do to extricate him – them – from this dreadful mess he had created, only he could not think of anything to say or do that would make his wrongs right, would make her smile at him again, as he longed her to do...

He startled at the heavy pounding on the door of his suite and bid whoever it was to enter, only to shoot up from his seat in surprise when out of the corner of his eye he saw King Elessar. “My King.”

He bowed deeply, but Elessar just motioned for him to make himself comfortable again. “Please, this is no formal visit. I just wanted to talk to you about some matters we need to discuss with some urgency.”

His eyebrows shot up, and his first instinct was to put this conversation off – to adjourn it as long as possible, because he feared his words and the outcome, the decision of his future that awaited him... but then he remembered what his timidity had brought him the last time and he nodded, pouring them some of the Southern wine he had requested to soothe his tumultuous thoughts. “What is it then that you want to speak of?”

“ I have thought of the request you made, and now ask to hear what you have in mind for your future. You should have a say in this too.”

_ This is truly not the best time to ask me _ , he thought, but quickly banished that idea to the back of his head where it belonged. It would not help him decide at all, or even sort out his confused mind, so he ignored it at present. That the very chance he had hoped for had come so quickly was too much of a coincidence to believe in, and so he frowned.

“ What makes you come to me now, and think this needs to be decided with urgency, as you have said?”

Elessar smiled tightly. “I... was made aware that you need to make a decision regarding your future, and soon.”

His eyebrows rose, and his surprise infused a bit more force in his voice than he had planned for. “How so?”

Elessar turned to look at him sharply. “You do not truly think that your brother is the only one who has detected your regard for Arnuilas? I assure you, I have, and I am not the only one.”

He grit his teeth in consternation, not only because he had been found out at all, but also by the man he had not expected to, the man that was his King and from whom he had hoped to conceal at least this part of his dishonourable actions.

“ And what is it with her that makes you come to me now?”

“ That she has asked me for leave to travel back to our homeland in the North on the morrow.”

“ Tomorrow?” He cried out before he could catch himself; this exceeded even his most pessimistic expectations... that she wanted to get away from him so desperately that she was not even prepared to wait a day or two, to cool their heated tempers. “Should you be telling me this?” he asked after a moment of consideration. “From what I have gathered of her intentions, her impending departure is a matter of confidence... and as she has not told me of it herself, I suppose it was her wish to conceal it from me.”

Aragorn sighed. “I have suspected as much – so you are the cause of this?”

“ I am.” The confession hurt, and yet, he forced it out through clenched teeth.

“ I do not want to intrude in private affairs, Boromir, but know that she is an honourable woman, and one worth your devotion. If the two of you should want to continue your path together, I will grant you leave to do so, and sent you north as my Steward for the realm of Arnor that has yet to be founded anew.”

Boromir swallowed harshly, his throat suddenly dry. “You will?”

“ I will, but, as I have said, the decision is up to you and her.”

He stared off in the darkness, closely observed by his King, until Elessar finally stood, an air of satisfaction around him, and clapped his shoulder. “Think on it, and decide wisely, Boromir. And mind the words of Lady Galadriel.”

He was out of the door before Boromir could ask what he meant by his words, and then he regretted why he had not been quicker to speak. What was it that he could mean? He had scarcely spoken to Lady Galadriel, as that high and mighty lady was much beyond the reach of an irrelevant mortal like him, much less confided in her on the matters of the heart or asked advice.

He shook the thought off and drained his glass of wine, then stood to refill it, only deciding against it when his head spun at the quick motion. This would not do. He would need a clear mind in the morning, to speak to her, to beg her forgiveness and plead that she would not leave him... but would that be the right thing to do? He knew not... she had utterly surprised him in the morning, when she had, despite the fury in her words and gestures, said things that were remarkably kind considering how he had betrayed her. Maybe he would be wrong in his appraisal of her intentions this time also? He sighed heavily and pushed his hair out of his forehead. She was a remarkable woman, and one so unlike every other he had ever met... but that meant his usual patterns of thoughts did not apply, and he still had a hard time treating her the way she wanted – and deserved – to be treated. Like a woman who had a mind of her own and knew how to apply it.

It was this what made trying to predetermine the course of their discussion on the morrow, which, he hoped, would be at least civil, futile – but that did not stop him from running every possibility through his head during the night, when he valiantly wanted to sleep. At one time, he led her back into the Citadel, smiling and laughing together after he had gained her hand in marriage, and the next second, she rode off quickly, eyes glowing back at him in hard anger, telling him that she neither wanted to see him again nor accept him as the future Steward of Arnor.

His anxiety kept him from finding the rest he so direly needed in the second night of waking, on concerns that he would have thought trifling only a year ago, when he travelled north with the fate of Gondor on his shoulders... but now, as the war was over and he had the assurance of surviving, not only a day or the year, but decades, they mattered. Then, his life had been at stake – now, it was his happiness, and he was so unused to the second consideration that a future without Arnuilas suddenly looked more bleak than the prospect of dying in the last battle of Minas Tirith.

Only in the wee hours of the morning, when the whole of the big, sombre city was asleep, he remembered what King Elessar had meant, words spoken long ago under the green and golden leaves of Caras Galadhon.  _ You have once said that it would be foolish to throw away what fate has given you; then, this might not have been wise, but now, I think it is. _

He had always been reluctant to accept Elven words of advice, but now, they resonated so soundly inside him, were so much in accordance with what he felt and desired, that he decided to make an exception from that rule.

 

_ July the 15 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

The first, grey light seeping in through his open bedroom window brought him down to the stables, where the first horses had awoken, but none of their grooms, and he stood in the darkness, surrounded by the smells of hay, until he heard the first noises of human motion. The doors where opened and he turned, observing the tall, lean figure approach the box where Arnuilas' Elven mount she had ridden down from Lothlórien stood, trying to steady his racing thoughts and the nibbling trepidation in his stomach.

“ Arnuilas.”

She froze in the middle of putting her pack down for a moment, before she broke through her numbness and slid it silently on the ground, turning to face him. She was the woman he had met at Rauros again, having shed her pretty dresses and fancy hairstyles for her boots, tunic and cloak again, strands caught at the back of her neck tightly.

“ What are you doing here?”

She sounded... well, he knew not what she sounded, although he had frantically listened for any clue of the state of mind she was in, after the agonizing night he had spent on her behalf. “I... I wanted to bid you farewell, and wish you a safe journey.”

He could see her tense, even in the dim light and under her sturdy clothes. “That you have, but I do not think it is all you have woken for at this forsaken hour.”

His resolve had left him and all the words he had mulled over and over during the long night seemed deficient now, none of them appropriate to express the tumult of feelings inside him, or even to facilitate the reconciliation he so desperately desired.

He sighed and stepped closer to her, seeing with dread that she retreated when he approached her, and halted his movement instantly. “I... I am sorry.”

She was not impressed, but that he had already suspected – as if those words, spoken so simply, could make up for the things he had said and done to her. “And for what? For using me like you have done, or for your dishonesty? Or are you just regretting that you have told me?”

He so desperately wanted to reach out for her, to touch her cheek, to gather her in his arms, that it hurt, but he held himself back – he had to, because he was too afraid that his fragile thread that still connected them would shatter at his contact.

“ I am sorry that I have not treated you with the respect you deserve. In the end, all of my behaviour begins and ends at my fear... at first, fear that you would leave me for death when you heard what I had done to the cause that should have saved all of us, but even when I had faith enough in your character to disregard this, another appeared. I was frightened that you would leave me – that the woman I had come to esteem would just vanish when she found out what a deplorable creature I am...”

He paused, in the dim light unsure whether it was pity in her eyes, an idea he dreaded – it should not be pity that made her forgive him!

“ I have told you, Boromir – you are a good man. Do not doubt this.” The few words sounded tense, but they gave him hope enough to finally bridge the chasm between them, to stand in front of her and look down on her face so he could see her... see the pain in her eyes, the weariness, and how much it cost her to stand here, in front of him. For a moment, he wished he had stayed away, that he had spared not only her, but also him this unpleasant scene that could do neither of them any good, but then, she reached out and touched his arm softly. 

“ I am sorry,” he repeated, and she tilted her head as she looked up at him, a sad smile playing around her lips. 

“ As am I.” He nodded, acknowledging the hidden meaning – a test, almost – in her words, and her smile broadened, though he could also see the pain in her eyes intensify. 

He finally reached out and cupped her cheek, relishing in the feeling of her soft skin under his hand and the way she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes to savour it. “You still want to go, do you not?”

A fresh wave of sorrow contorted her face for a moment until she made her decision and nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers brushed a few, errand strands back and he leaned in, touching his forehead against hers, inhaling the scent he knew he would miss even now. “Then travel knowing that I love you with all my heart, Arnuilas, and that I am yours should you want me.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, the surprise evident on her face, and though a smile slowly spread over her features that should have delighted him, he felt pain instead – that she had no inkling of his regard, had no idea that he loved her... how must he have acted? What had she thought of him? It made it all the more wondrous that she was with him still, that she had not rebuffed him completely... that she had not taken his heart and clenched it in her fist.

“ You do?”

“ I do, and I have for a very long time now, though I have been too dull to realize it before I feared that I had lost you.”

She smiled – but he now recognized it as a tentative expression, one that he could not misconstrue as wholehearted approval of his proposal, no matter how he longed to do so. “Then I thank you for this honour,” whispered she softly.

The thoughtfulness in her voice made him tense, though he strived to keep the slight motion out of his fingers that still lay at her cheek, gently stroking the skin he had kissed so often. “I know you better than to expect that you overthrow your plans and ideas just because I have confessed my feelings... but yet... do I ask too much in your considering them, Arnuilas?”

She frowned softly. “Do you truly think me so callous, Boromir? That, after all we have been through together, I do not feel a regard for you?”

The hope that swelled inside his chest made him smile, and yet, he knew that this was not all of it – she had sounded so tentatively, so thoughtful, that he knew she would not kiss him now and return to the Citadel with him as he dearly wished she would.

“ I do not – I am only fearful that I presume too much, and therefore, presume very little in regards to you and your feelings.”

“ And it does you credit, Boromir, that you act such – but I do not know if it will be enough... I feel for you, as you do for me, but we are so alike... both strong-willed and independent. I do not know if this what is being built between us shall stand through the storms that surely are to come.”

He felt his fear clench his throat again. “But how can you know, if you do not try? All I ask is that you consider what I have said... nothing more.” He hesitated for a moment. “I will follow you north if that is what you desire.”

“ You truly would leave your homeland and the people you have sworn to protect for a woman you barely know?” 

“ In the years to come, the men of Westernesse shall not only dwell in the South.”

She frowned softly. “How do you know this?”

“ Our King has spoken to me yesterday evening, and he has proposed that the office of the Steward of Arnor shall be mine as soon as the realm is re-established, should I desire it. If I take it up or not is entirely your decision – if you want more furlongs than have been measured between you and me, I shall abide to your wishes.”

She frowned softly. “How could I not wish you to take a place where you can do so much good, and put your considerable talents to use? The people of the North will need a warrior and not a sage for many decades to come, Boromir.”

He looked at her with trepidation. “Then I will follow you north when the time has come for me to go.”

She nodded softly, and he could not miss the tears stinging in her eyes, and how they tugged at his own heart, heightening the pain he already felt at their impending parting. “Farewell, Boromir,” she whispered and he nodded, forcing himself to smile when he only wanted to weep.

“ Farewell,” he answered and was on the verge of loosening his grip on her when she pulled him closer, her lips finding hers, kissing him with a fervour that belied her declarations of calm and reason and spoke of more than mere regard on her side, giving him hope that he had not had when he made his way to the stables in a desperate attempt of regaining what he had carelessly thrown away.

“ Farewell, my love,” he repeated quietly, then watched her as she prepared her horse and picked up her bundle, knowing that his lingering would only make their parting more painful, but without the strength to pull away and return to his rooms. 

He walked with her as she led her horse from the stables, out into the still quiet and nearly eerie streets of Minas Tirith, where she reached out and touched his hand for a last time, pressing it before she mounted. He tilted his head to watch her, to look into that beautiful, sad face as long as he could before she turned and rode off, the clapping of hooves the only sound besides the frantic twittering of the summer birds. As he stared after her until she vanished behind the bend of the street, he saw her turn in the saddle more than once, looking back at him, and raised his hand in greeting as if he wanted to reach out for her until she faded from his view.


	21. Chapter Twenty: Days to Come

**The Long Way Home – Chapter Twenty: Days to Come**

_ July the 15 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

The road was long and unfamiliar in the beginning, as she had never travelled far enough south to reach Rohan or even Gondor on her own, but in these days of peace, and with her bow slung over her shoulder, she feared nothing, not even the loneliness that approached her when she left the Riddermark and entered the strange, untamed lands she would cross until she reached Bree. She was in the wilds again, travelling only with her horse as company, asking the trees and birds for the way and doing no one's bidding other than her own as she crossed the lands leisurely, without the hurry she had usually felt when voyaging through Eriador.

And yet... yet she felt that she missed something... no, not something – someone. After the first few days, when the tumultuous emotions of their quarrel and swift reconciliation had passed away, she felt that she lacked his company sorely, his smiles, his quiet conversation, his tales of lands wholly foreign to her, the way he came to her in the evenings, when they had built the fire, to hold her in his arms...

She sighed softly. By now, she regretted that she had not told him that she loved him, that she wanted to stay with him, to accept his hand then and there... but it was her wistful desire to see him again speaking when she thought so. When her rational mind took over, she knew that she had been wise to exercise caution, not laying her heart open to him as he had done to her... too frightened was she that he would change his opinion of her and leave her standing in the rain, even more the fool for having told him what she felt. If she did him wrong in thinking so, if it was her low opinion of herself rather than him speaking, she knew not, but the lure of safety this course of action held had proved to be too strong to resist it.

Despite the misgivings she now felt about her decision, she was sure that she had done the right thing, if not the one that made her instantly and completely happy. Their separation had given her time to soothe her feelings, calm their unusual turmoil, and reflect on their relationship – because by now, she had to call it such, there was no other word for it – with the benefit of distance.

She already felt... calmer. As beautiful a thing as their whirlwind acquaintance was, it had stirred emotions and questions inside her that she was not only not used to, but also ill-equipped to deal with. For her whole life, she had had two things, a purpose and the determination to carry it out, the need and wish to protect those less fortunate and strong than her and her people, ingrained into her from the cradle. Though it had not been a meaning to her life that she had chosen herself, it had been one that she was resolute in carrying out, if only because she saw no alternative to it, no other way to live her life than dedicating herself to others. But now that the war was over, to choose her own path was suddenly possible – and with that chance came also the duty to do so, to decide what she was to do in the many years that still lay ahead of her, and with whom she wanted to spend them.

In retrospection, it had not been the most fortunate timing, that these two enormous, life-changing decisions were forced onto her at the same time, but now that she was detached enough from the first heat of her emotions and could think instead of feel and react, she supposed that there was no good in lamenting the unfairness of fate. Her philosophy had been to accept what was thrown at her with equanimity for a very long time, since even before her first chance at happiness had been trashed by a heavy Orc axe, and she would not act differently now. She would think on what she would do, and then carry it out with the determination and will that had allowed her to survive in the unaccommodating wilds of Eriador for so many years.

What she was to do, she only knew on one account – that she would continue to fight and serve, to help rebuild the kingdom that had once spanned the wild planes of the North she called home, and aid its King and Steward in any way she could conceive. But if she wanted to bind her fate to Boromir's, to continue with him through the long decades that were to follow... she knew not.

He was a good man, and one she loved dearly – but he had his faults, just as she, and they were both old enough to be reluctant to mend their ways. But then again... he had already tried, had he not? There was a decided difference in how he had treated her at first, when they had had time to think on their first night together, and after their heated quarrel. Back then, in Lórien, he had presumed everything, had thought himself in control of everything that had happened with a implicitness that enraged her even when she thought about it now. When she departed, he had tried very hard to think not only of his wishes and his pride, but also hers, and without her forcing him to do so by heated words or enraged accusations. He had been... considerate, and a small smile graced her lips.

But how long would that remarkable change in a man like him last? Would it be gone with her, fade away with every furlong she rode north, removed herself from influencing him, or could it last? She knew not... and it was only time that could answer her questions – yes, time would tell her what to do... and it was time that she now had more than enough. Aragorn had estimated that they would only depart from Rohan in the middle of August, and even travelling hard, it would be autumn before Boromir reached Rivendell with the party of Elrond's house. Yes... she had time enough, and the thought gratified her immensely... or at least her reason was happy with it. Her heart, though she tried to call it back to order more than once, ached – she missed him... and no more than when at night, when she sat at her small camp fire and stared out into the darkness, hoping that he would come to her and hold her in his arms, kiss her brow and smile at her, whisper his love into her ear in away that sprang from her wishes and imagination only, as there was no such memory of him. He had only told her of his feelings when it was near too late, and in the dark hours of the night when she sat and pondered, unable to fall asleep again, she was still astonished that a man like him, a proud, self-assured warrior, would chose a woman like her, and not a sweet, docile girl from the meadows at the sea that he could easily lead into the direction he wanted, and mend her to be the woman he desired.

But maybe that was the answer she so direly needed – that  _ she _ was what he wanted, with her strong opinions and stubborn views on her own worth, hard as it was to believe. They were so alike in so many ways, and she... well, she could not imagine living out her days with a man that agreed with everything she said, and only smiled complacently when she asked his opinion. Maybe it was the same with him? She shrugged softly and tightened her grip on the reins of her horse. Time... yes, it was time that would tell her of his wishes. If he did not return north at all, she would definitely know.

 

_ July the 16 _ _ h _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

He had spent the day after Arnuilas' departure in quiet reflection, staring out first over the battlements of the city, then from his window, thinking on what had happened, replaying what she had said and done and what he had said and done in his head, lingering on those memories that gave him pain or pleasure as his moods changed. But even when he felt darkness intrude, there was one thing that he knew and that kept him from the bleak despair he had felt in the days before – she had given him hope, and she had spoken, though not of love, at least of her regard for him. That was enough for him to pursue his course of action, and so he stood now in his brother's sitting room, watching Faramir as he organized the things so many years living in the same quarters had assembled. He was to move – his brother, whom he had always so much associated with these halls, would move and go away, just as he would, though only over the Great River to Emyn Arnen, in sight of the city. It was he who would undertake the longer journey, the journey he still had to tell Faramir of, and had come to speak to him about.

“ Brother?”

Faramir looked up at him and grinned. “There you are. You have just arrived at the right time to help me sort out my books.”

“ Your books?” His disgust must have shown on his expression, for Faramir laughed heartily at him.

“ Oh yes, my books. There are so many that I do not know which I should take with me or leave behind... but I suppose that I should rather ask Gandalf about them than you. Though his answers will be unintelligible, at least he will have an opinion that goes beyond them all being rubbish and not worth all the attention.”

“ Surely you do not think me that bad, brother.”

“ Well, not quite – I think you would at least advise me on keeping those on the art of war, although for what purpose I should use them now, I do not know.”

“ You have always been more of a scholar than I, and I think it will do you good in the years to come. And as your future wife has killed the Witch-King of Angmar, I suppose you can leave the fighting to her without your men being worse off.”

Faramir laughed again. “You might be right in that – she is exceptionally skilled with the sword, as I have already found out, though she professes that she wants to focus on arts more appropriate for the time of peace that is now to come. But maybe you would be so kind as to take the heavy burden of warfare off my shoulders?”

The easy joke went past him, and when he did not laugh, but rather looked quite grave, his brother turned to him from the papers he was sorting on his desk. “What is it, Boromir? Why do you look at me so?”

“ I fear that I will not be near you for that, Faramir.”

“ Why ever not? Do you wish to leave Gondor so soon after your return?”

“ Not so very soon, but still soon, brother. My King has asked me to travel north, to help restore the kingdom that has been lost, and reign there in his stead when he is absent.”

Faramir stared at him, but not with the grave mien that he had expected, but with joy instead. “Then you will be a Steward; I am glad for it. I must confess, despite everything you have said, it has ailed me that you, who are the best of men and also the elder, to whom the office by right would have passed, should go without a title.”

He nodded softly while his brother looked thoughtfully into the distance, until he refocused his gaze. “And I think your new home will not at all be inconvenient in that it is close to a certain lady's.”

“ Yes... yes, that too.”

Upon hearing his hesitation, Faramir's brow furrowed. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“ I have. I have confessed my love to her and asked for her hand in marriage, but I have not been fortunate enough to receive an answer yet, and she has departed for the North yesterday.”

Only when Faramir stared at him with dread, he realized how desperate and despondent his words must have sounded, and tried to meliorate the impact his words had had. “I have told her what I have failed to confess for so long, and she did not take it kindly, but I hope that it is sorted out now; nevertheless, she wanted to depart, and I thought that trying to hinder her would do more harm than letting her go.”

Faramir nodded slowly. “And what will you do now?”

“ I will travel to Rohan with King Elessar for King Théoden's funeral, and then accompany his guests back north to Rivendell, where I will arrive at the beginning of autumn. Then I will meet with the Ranger chiefs as still remain in Arnor, and set to the task I have been given, after I have found out how Arnuilas thinks and feels about me now. She has not only given me time to think, but also reason to hope, brother – nothing is lost yet, and I intend to heed your advice and try to win her.”

Faramir nodded. “That is a good and sound plan, though I am loath to part with you. I am only glad that you will remain with me for my wedding, and meet my betrothed before you finally leave us.”

“ As am I. From what you have told me, she is a remarkable woman.”

Only the thought of Lady Éowyn was enough to bring a smile to Faramir's face. “Yes, she is. Both of us have been fortunate enough to find worthy women, women who are, perhaps, even more worthy than we – but I will not complain. I was exceedingly fortunate.”

Boromir nodded, and only hoped that he would be able to claim the same happiness for himself in the none too distant future.

 

_ July the 19 _ _ th _ _ , year 3019 of the Third Age _

 

King Éomer of Rohan and his sister arrived only three days later to bear their uncle to Edoras, and it was then that Boromir was introduced to the woman who would soon be his sister, and who, both with her exceeding fondness for his brother and her resemblance to Arnuilas, in character if not in looks, immediately endeared herself to him. He found her kind and intelligent, and he frequently rode with her and his brother, talking and laughing, until they reached Edoras and laid the late King of Rohan to rest. On the same day, his brother and his fair lady were also wed, and Boromir delighted in their happiness with them, until it was sullied by his own impending departure. He took his leave from his brother with a heavy heart, knowing that it would be a long time until they could meet again, but not as heavy as more than a year ago when he set out to find Lord Elrond's house in Rivendell. His destination was now the same, but it was not a journey into dark lands and unknown dangers, but one among friends and under the protection of the greatest wizard Middle-Earth had ever seen.

He hugged Faramir, and Éowyn offered her hand to him for a kiss, smiling.

“ Until we meet again.”

Faramir nodded. “Until we do. I hope that you will gain all that you can hope for, brother.”

“ As do I.” Éowyn smiled. “You must bring her to see us in Ithilien some time, brother. She sounds like a woman I would love to meet.”

Faramir laughed and affectionately pulled her into his embrace, reminding Boromir of all that he did not have, and sorely lacked. “I do not know if this is such a good idea, Éowyn. Between the two of you, there would be nothing for me to decide in my own house.”

Boromir only nodded, not wanting to dwell on the expectations he had raised, because it was not at all sure that Arnuilas would come south with him again. “Farewell then.”

“ Farewell,” his brother answered, and Boromir turned away to join the large group that had assembled in the courtyard in front of the Golden Hall to begin their long journey home.

 

_ August the 17 _ _ th _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

It turned out that Arnuilas did not break her travels in Bree, but instead carried on past the city, as her eagerness to return to her home by now surpassed her own fatigue or that of her horse. A few more days brought her to the small settlement of Rangers that had always been her home, and that she found still inhabited, though the marks of recent battles were visible all around the walls and palisades. Her reunion with her family was as joyous as could be expected after so long an absence with only little news conveyed between them, but as much as she loved them, even the prospect of hearty meals and stories told at the fire could not hold her back for long. She left again soon, seeking out those Rangers that who, in Aragorn's now prolonged absence, led his people, giving them the first account of the battles in Gondor and the new heights and honours the people there bestowed upon their new king, and the assurance that he would, in due time, come north himself, and send a new Steward for this kingdom that was yet to reemerge from the shadows of Angmar in time.

What this man's name was she did not tell, for though she wished to see Boromir ride north on the old Nord-South road to accept all the duties this new office would bestow on him, a small, nibbling part of doubt still lingered with her, that he would rather stay in the much pleasanter Gondor instead of accepting the harsh plains of Eriador – and with as little incentive as she could prove. She still feared... and she knew that she would fear until she had word of his impending arrival. Though she felt foolish in doing so, she counted the days, from the one Aragorn had set for their departure from Minas Tirith, until she could reasonably expect him to come to her. He would travel with Elrond, she was sure, and that great Lord could not return to his house without all the North knowing about it, so she was convinced that she would have word about it.

 

_ September the 21 _ _ st _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

The road to Rivendell had been long, though not as tedious as the first time he had travelled it, but nevertheless, he was grateful to return to the last friendly house on this side of the Misty Mountains, though he hoped that ere long, it would lose this distinction. When he looked down into the valley after crossing the moors, seeing the lights glistening from beneath, he wondered if Arnuilas should be there, waiting for him.

To his great disappointment, she was not, and for a moment, the insecurity that seemed to be his constant companion where she was concerned rose again, even though he had thought he had quelled it with his brave declarations to his brother. But it did not remain long – a few days of doubt, days in which he met with those of the northern folk that resided in Rivendell, to get to know the people that were now his, brought a note, carried to him by a young Ranger coming from the West. Though the handwriting was unfamiliar, he soon found out that it was Arnuilas' – and that she bid him to meet her in Bree, at the Prancing Pony, at the beginning of October. Originally, he had hoped to travel a little longer with the merry Hobbits and Gandalf, who, he understood, was to accompany them at least until Bree, but now, his plans were all changed with this new piece of information. He would ride immediately, not knowing the East-West-Road to Bree and the distance it covered, and took his leave of his friends and his kind host – who obviously knew the reason for his rather hasty departure, considering the indulgent smile he bestowed upon him.

 

_ October the 3 _ _ rd _ _ , Year 3019 of the Third Age. _

 

It was the second day he waited, the second day she had not come to see him, and he felt his nervousness rise with every minute that he passed in his guest room at the Prancing Pony, an inn that was surprisingly accommodating considering that in dark times like these, it did not see many travellers. But all the comforts of Butterbur's ale and cold meat could not quench the fear that slowly and steadily rose inside his chest – did she not want to see him? Or, worse – had something happened to her? His thoughts gave him little comfort, and even when he had taken to sitting in the bar room so he would not be alone with his apprehensions, it did him little good. It seemed that all the villagers talked about were the insecurity of the roads, the roaming bandits and how many of their friends had died in the attack on Bree during the winter, all not thoughts that were fit to cheer a man like him up at the present.

That they did not talk  _ to _ him, but rather  _ about _ him in hushed tones did not help the matter also – he stood out in his embroidered doublet and the mail gleaming under it, with the sword that scarcely left his side, and he felt less like a guest and more like a sample to be admired under the guise of sipping some of Butterbur's ale. But even the second, agonizing evening passing in such a fashion was now over, with him being the last guest to linger downstairs, watching the innkeeper wash and polish his last glasses. He should go to bed, try to find rest amidst his fears and apprehensions, but just as he had resolved to stand and leave his shady corner of the room, he heard a knock on the door and startled.

 

She was wet, cold and tired, having ridden too long and hard both for her taste and that of her horse, and by now, she wanted nothing more but a basin of water, a good meal, and a feathery bed. If forced, she could also do without the three of them, and contend herself with her blanket and a tree above her, but she finally had reached Bree, and even gained entrance from the gatekeepers that, by now, were even more mistrustful and wary of folk like her, with her dirty clothes and dishevelled appearance. She thought it was the horse that gained her entry – when she had previously come to Bree, she had travelled on foot, and the deeply suspicious look they had given it, for it was a fine Elven steed, made her think that they would want to investigate if she had stolen it somewhere, but for that, they had to keep her in their village.

Whatever their reasons were, she was grateful for them, as she did not fancy another night outside in that cold, dreary weather, and instead hoped to find a free room at the Prancing Pony. The inn did not seem as inviting as in previous days, with many of its windows dark and the gate to the courtyard firmly closed, but she nevertheless dismounted and, after finding a remotely sheltered spot under a roof for her horse, knocked on the door heavily.

The door was opened a crack by Butterbur himself, and when he saw her, he was on the verge of closing it again until he stopped, obviously thinking better of it. “And what might you be doing here?”

“ I am looking for a bed and a meal, Butterbur, as do all who come to your doorstep.”

He frowned at her, but nevertheless opened the door and she entered, trying to contain her eagerness in looking around, but Boromir was nowhere to be seen in the dark shadows of the bar room and her heart fell a little. “Can you pay me then?”

Even before her indignation at his question arose, she felt a familiar presence behind her, smelled a scent that she had missed for so long, and she turned around, the smile on her lips widening into an impish grin. “Will you vouch for me, Mylord? It seems that this good man is not inclined to believe in my honour.”

He smiled. “A lady of your reputation does not need my protection, but if you wish me to, I will.”

Butterbur looked at her with the look of a man beyond whose understanding the proceedings went, and then she nodded at Boromir.

“ Will you make a room for the Lady then, Butterbur?” asked Boromir, and though she had known the man for so long, she had never seen anything akin to his present surprise on his face. 

“ Y-Yes, surely, if you wish, but do you know who she is? She is one of those Rangers, and, well... I have always thought that these folks are not to be trusted and...”

“ King Elessar thinks differently, as do I, obviously. I will take her with me while you prepare her suite, and I think a hot bath and a good meal will be in order, though I realize that at this late hour, it might not be easy to procure.”

He looked at her and she could see the hint of insecurity in his eyes, longing to banish it with her smile before she turned to the landlord again. “And could you be so kind as to find a place for my horse in your stables? I could not rest without knowing that it was properly cared for.”

“ Yes... yes, sure. Nob!” he cried out and Boromir smiled at her.

“ Would you do me the honour then?”

She nodded and preceded him up the stairs where he directed her to the finest suite the Prancing Pony could boast, which he had been obviously given by virtue of his fine clothing and regal appearance, and she smiled. “Butterbur will be scandalized, you know.”

“ Let him be – I do not care, if you only will have me.”

All the doubt she had felt before rose inside her again, but only for a moment – then the feeling of seeing him again, the knowledge that he had truly come for her, and only for her, overwhelmed any lingering scruples and she smiled up at him, stepping towards him and reaching out to touch his cheek. He drew her closer, gathered her in his arms, and then leaned down to kiss her, a motion she met with one of her own, relishing in the feeling of his lips softly pressing against hers, his tongue seeking out hers, his fingers stroking her back and her shoulders.

Their moment of tenderness did not last long, however – she was still wet, dirty, tired and hungry, and the bustling of Nob singing off-key as he walked up the stairs to the room he wanted to prepare for Arnuilas quickly scared them apart again.

“ I wonder why you have even asked for a second room for me?” she asked when he motioned for her to sit and she dropped herself heavily into one of the chairs.

Boromir grinned. “Well, you said yourself that Butterbur would be scandalized...”

“ You yourself said that you do not care.”

“ But you might – and then, I did not know what... what you thought, or if you just wanted to meet with me to tell me that I should go home to Gondor.”

The idea of him going away was one that she had never even pondered, looking forward to seeing him again as she had for the previous weeks, and she shook her head. “I would never do that – I have missed you too much to consider such a ridiculous idea.”

“ And I have missed you too,” he replied cautiously, “though now, I see the wisdom in your going away. It gave us time to think.”

She nodded. “Yes... time that I have put to good use, or at least I hope so. There were many things to consider.”

“ And yet you are here.”

“ And yet I am, yes, but I could say the same for you. You could have decided to trade the rash North for the gentle South.” Her words meant more than she had said, and he seemed to pick up on it, reaching out for her hand and pressing it.

“ A fool I would be to even think of it. The North is by far more beautiful because it has a will of its own.”

She smiled, but just as she wanted to answer, there was a knock at the door, and Nob came in to announce that her room was ready to accommodate her, and she had to follow him, to preserve at least the illusion of propriety even though the Hobbit had looked at her curiously. She washed quickly and put on the plain dress she had brought, as she intended to stay for a few days, and then Boromir joined her in time to keep her company during her meal, talking about his travels and hers, the days he had spent at Rivendell and what he had already accomplished in regards to meeting the Rangers of Eriador.

Only when her late supper had been taken away and both Nob and Butterbur had wished them a good night they slid through the empty corridors back into his suite, where he finally faced her with a serious mien. “Will you marry me then?” he asked simply, and she nodded, swallowing at the sudden lump in her throat that surprised her. She had expected that question, and yet, now that it was there, she felt keenly how lucky a woman she was to have this man stand in front of her and propose to her after all they had been through together. “I will.”

He gathered her in his arms and she nestled her head into her shoulder, relishing in the feeling of safety his presence gave her now, and smiled. “And will you talk to me instead of remaining silent?”

She could feel him nod. “I will – when you promise to do the same.” His fingers stroked over the back of her head softly. “There were a great many things that you have left out as well.”

She sighed contentedly, inhaling his scent deeply. “I know... and believe me, I have learned of it – my foolishness nearly cost me the man I love.”

He pulled back to stare at her, the pleased surprise evident in his countenance, and then he leaned in to kiss her deeply before he led her to his bedroom.

 

A week later, as Boromir stood on the shore of Lake Nenúial, the crisp autumn wind whipping around them, watching the sun set in rich pink over the glistening water, he smiled and knew that he had found the one place in Middle Earth where he belonged – at her side.

 

_Fin._


End file.
